


what's in a name?

by UncrownedKing



Series: chivalry [7]
Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Illness, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Names, OCs - Freeform, Panic, Scars, THIS IS BEFORE POF, Unsympathetic Roman, being sick, cursing, description of violence, despite how they also represent what my take on Roman's internal turmoil is, if it makes you all feel better its not his fault, lets not beat around the bush anymore, pre-putting others first, sorry but i can't account for that level of roman self hatred in this fic oops, that's what these bastards are, they are also OCs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:49:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 32,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23617048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UncrownedKing/pseuds/UncrownedKing
Summary: Names are fickle things. You either have one or you don't, either born with one or you make it yourself. And if the Romans are good at anything, they're good at making it themselves.A mini interlude between "chivalry is dead" and its sequel. This is definitely going to set up for the sequel, which will also 100% have more Actual Sides™, but.,.,,.,.,., I got really bored and wrote about these idiots a lot hehe haha
Series: chivalry [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1389292
Comments: 92
Kudos: 79





	1. Eric

“Thief!” The Artist’s words were punctuated by two more bangs on the tree’s trunk. “Open up, damnit!”

“What if he’s simply not home?” the Playwright’s voice was muffled, speaking his normal tone.

“He’s definitely in there, damnit, I can tell, and I’m gonna get him out,” the Artist said, slamming his fist into the door again.

The Child shifted his weight on both feet. He could just….wait outside until the Thief came. He was gonna come outside eventually, right? The Playwright and the Artist both looked so mad that it might be easier. 

Or they could just go home. He didn’t mind hiding in his room all the time. He just had to get better at coming downstairs when neither of them were around. Or he had to get better at cooking. He was sure he could do it if he tried.

“Why can’t I stay with you again? I don’t think he wants me,” the Child couldn’t keep the disappointment out of his voice. 

No one ever wanted him. It….hurt. Like, actually hurt, like his chest was clenching something nasty, but he knew he couldn’t complain. Complaining annoyed the Playwright.

“‘Cause I’m not a good baby sitter,” the Artist said through his gritted teeth.

“Because you’re annoying, and loud, and I’m done,” the Playwright looked at his nails, then raked his hand through his hair and huffed, “I can go inside and drag him out.”

The Child winced. They had been outside for half an hour, trying to get the Thief to come outside, but no budge. But breaking into his house would be mean.

“That’s rude,” he whispered.

The Artist kicked the door, grunting in anger as he did, and that was the Playwright’s cue. He straightened his back, sinking into the ground, and rose back up on the immediate other side of the door. He climbed up the stairs and stopped.

Directly opposite of the door was the Thief, curled in a ball with his cloak pulled tight around himself. He didn’t seem surprised by the Playwright’s appearance, raising a single eyebrow at his entry, but also didn’t make any move. 

Childish. The Playwright rolled his eyes and went back down the stairs — footsteps behind him indicated that the Thief stood up again.

“Don’t let him in,” he hissed, grabbing the Playwright’s arm.

He turned, looking down at the Thief. Boy, looking down. The Thief had gotten the shorter end of the stick, literally, by being a small ball of whoopass. He scowled at the Playwright, a hint of fear in his eyes. “I-I don’t want to be a bad parent,” he said, “I know I’d do a shit job. Don’t let them in.”

That was a fair fear, but it sounded like the Thief had no idea how absolutely horrendous the Playwright and Artist were. By god, they only settled on this solution after forgetting to feed the Child for a week. He tried to cook himself something after the nine days, and set two of the Artist’s paintings on fire. 

As much as the Playwright liked to tout himself as the most logical of all of them, it was common knowledge that the Thief was much more responsible. He was one to bandage wounds, to count rations, to make sure the operation ran smoothly. While the Playwright admired these traits, he knew he could never live up to them, and part of that was acknowledging that he was simply bad at taking care of small humans. He didn’t now what they needed. Maybe the Thief didn’t, either, but he would at least have it in him to try and figure out what the Child needed.

“You are the only person who might treat the Child like he exists,” the Playwright said, voice flat, “You can’t do worse than Artist and I. I promise.”

With that, the Playwright flicked his wrist, opening the door at the bottom of the stairs. The Thief winced when the Artist hollered from down the stairs in excitement, pounding footsteps coming up. 

The Artist jumped onto the platform, flipping the Thief off while he rolled his eyes. The Child followed slowly, after making sure the door was closed, his eyes firmly glued to the floor. He didn’t want to see the Thief’s disappointment. 

“Did you tell him?” the Artist asked the Playwright, while the Thief crossed his arms and squinted angrily at the wall to their left. 

Petulant. He’ll come around. 

The Playwright nodded, and then gestured to the door. “Good luck, Thief. You will need it,” he said.

The Artist laughed, one harsh bark as he threw his arms around the Playwright’s shoulders and pressed his face into his side. Then, instead of using the door, the pair sank down into the ground, disappearing from sight. 

Note to self, never anger the Artist nor the Playwright, because they will call each other in for backup, and two versus one is always going to favor the group. The Thief sighed, rubbing his forehead before turning and heading back up the stairs to face the Child. 

At least the kid didn’t seem too offended. He had shuffled over to the couch, legs kicking a little. He didn’t have his cloak anymore — the Thief would probably have to get him a jacket or something. The Child was going to get cold. 

“Are you alright, Thief?” he asked, and the Thief blinked away his worries. 

The Child was going to be fine. Because the Thief said so. He nodded, rubbing his hands together slowly as he made his way to the kitchen. “So,” he said, and he hated how dry his mouth was, “Um. Do you…..eat? Food?”

What the fuck kinda dumbass question was that? Well, it was kinda valid, because Playwright didn’t eat, but this is the CHILD we’re talking about, of course he eats FOOD, what kinda IDIOT are you?

Again, the Child didn’t seem offended. In fact, he giggled a little, holding the edge of the seat and leaning forward a little. “I dunno! What do you call food? Artist wouldn’t let me eat any of the spiders I found around his paintings. Sometimes he forgets to like, make food, and I don’t wanna ask him to. But then when I ate all his Loganberry he got upset, too. Am I supposed to eat food?”

Oh, god. “Of course you are!” the Thief put his hands up to stop the Child’s train of thought as the realization of how bad the other two idiots were dawned on him, “I was just, uh, wondering if you were hungry.”

The Child blinked in surprise now. Was the Thief going to….give him food?

“A little,” he said, and he pulled his knees up to his chest, “But-But that’s okay. I can just wait until you eat. Playwright and Artist both didn’t like it when I’d ask for things, so I just won’t.”

Excuse me? That sounded like bad parenting to the Thief. He squinted at the Child, and then looked around the kitchen. It was kinda early, but he could whip something up, and then he could just remember to have child-friendly snacks stocked. That’d work. 

Hang on, he didn’t need to go all out for the Child. But he did want the kid to know that he could ask for things when he needed them, or even if he just wanted them. The Thief wasn’t gonna string him out to dry. 

“Nah, I’ll-I can make some….Oh, wait, I’ve got trail mix,” he went to a cabinet, searching around in his remembrance, “D’ya want some of that?”

The Thief cared that much? That was kinda a surprise. 

The Child nodded, but what were the repercussions for getting things now? Where should he go if he didn’t want to be seen? The Child didn’t want to cause any trouble for anyone, he knew he was small and fairly insignificant. Just because he helped stop Princey didn’t mean he was any much older or more important — that’s what the Artist said, right? The Playwright said he was wrong, though, so it was kinda up in the air. 

“That’d be nice,” the Child said.

The Thief nodded, and then turned around, but the Child didn’t want him to just be doing everything. So he hopped off of the couch and shuffled into the kitchen, looking around at everything. The Thief’s area was so organized and nice. 

“Alright, here — wait,” the Thief squinted at the couch. Wasn’t he right there….?

Then the Child patted his knee, after which the Thief jumped up onto the counter in one hop and hugged the mix to his chest. The Child jumped back, too, backing against the counter. There was a clear fear on the kid’s face, the Thief would recognize that anywhere, but what did he have to be afraid of?

Quick as the devil, too, the Child sprinted up the stairs, before the Thief could say anything. It took the Thief a few seconds to process what had happened, and then two more to realize that there was open weaponry just laying around in his bedroom area. He cursed under his breath and ran after the Child. 

Even though the Child wasn’t that far ahead of him, the Thief didn’t know where he’d gone. Up on the bedroom floor there were no changes—all of the weapons were still neatly aligned in their holders and on the wall, the arrows the Thief was sharpening laying across his workbench. The bathroom door was even open. 

He was about to check the balcony when he noticed that the blanket on his bed wriggled. The large mass on the left of his bed wasn’t pillows, then. 

The Thief carefully touched it, and though his hand was soft, the Child scurried across the bed. He was hiding beneath the blanket from the perceived monster.

Good lord. 

This was something he had to clear up. 

“Hey, look, uh. I’m sorry if Artist and Playwright were shit guardians. They kinda seem like they would be. But, ah. If you’re going to be staying here, then I want to make sure your needs are being met, and that you’re safe and healthy. Okay? If you don’t want to deal with me then that’s fine, just let me know and I’ll stay out of your way.”

The Thief swallowed the lump in his throat, trying to get rid of the dry desperation. He didn’t know what he was doing. 

Silence followed, laying flat across the Thief’s chest and pressing, and he could feel his own breathing pick up. His gloved hands tensed, squeezed, tugged and proded at himself to keep from panicking. The kid must have heard him. Right?

Just as he began to worry, the Child responded. “Thanks,” he said, still burrowed beneath the blankets, “I can-You don’t have to look at me. I’m good at hiding. And then you won’t have to be mad at me.”

“I’m not gonna be mad at you,” wait, he can’t just promise that, “Well, ok, if you like….trip over my axe and then somehow fling it at me, I’m going to be a little upset, but I’m not going to go off on you. You’re still a kid and you’re still learning.”

The Child peeked his head up at that. His big eyes were light brown, almost gold near the iris, and he blinked curiously at the Thief. 

Hopefully that meant he wasn’t scared? Or that he was starting to not be scared? The Thief gave him a small smile and wave, and the Child seemed to smile behind the blankets. Well, if this was going to be his new home, then might as well do something nice tonight. Right?

He wanted the Child to feel safe. Comfortable. At home.

“Do you wanna watch a movie?” the Thief asked. 

The Child nodded. And that’s how the Thief ended up laying on his bed beside the Child, swadled in some of the Thief’s pajamas and eating vanilla ice cream, watching The Little Mermaid. The Bard had set up a projector above the Thief’s bed, so they could watch movies together when he came over, and it was such a good thing that the Thief knew how to use it.

For the first half of the movie, the Child ate, watched excitedly. The kid even knew all the lyrics to “Under the Sea,” somehow. But as the film went on, he snuggled more into the bed, set the ice cream aside and burrowed into the blankets until just a small circle of his face was left. The Thief didn’t watch him too much, just made sure he was doing okay, but it was nice to see him getting comfortable in his new home. His bed was big enough too that the Child and him could probably just split it. He had enough blankets for that. 

While the credits played, the Thief realized he’d been focused so heavily on the movie (sue him, he liked a good princess story) that he didn’t notice how intently the Child was starring at his face. His eyes flicked down to him, and yet the Child didn’t turn. 

So maybe he should ask. The Thief crossed his arms a little, turning to the Child with a quiet “What?”

The Child only hummed in response. So the Thief asked, once more, “Whats up?”

Like, was there something wrong? He thought the movie marathon was a good call. It was nostalgic, and who doesn’t like the Golden Age of Disney?

“You’d be a good Eric,” the Child said, out of basically nowhere. 

And now we’re on that topic of conversation. The Thief raised an eyebrow. “Like, what, my name?” he joked, eating some more trail mix, “You think my name’s Eric?”

The Child nodded, patting the Thief’s chest with such assurance that he could have almost convinced the Thief that he actually knew what he was doing. Almost. “I think your name should be Eric, since you don’t have one, right? You’d make a really good Eric. He was a good prince.”

A prince. Not only that, a  _ good _ prince. Did the Child think of him like that?

The Thief leaned back on the pillows, watching the Child turn back to the projection with the utmost glee, as though he’d figured something out. As though he’d made the ultimate discovery. 

“Yeah, you’re like Prince Eric, ‘cause he took care of Ariel when she was on land, and he was really protective of her, and he’s really sweet,” the Child scoffed, crossing his arms—he looked little like the Playwright in that moment, watching the movie like a critic who knew they were right, “The evil witch had to use magic to make him think different. She couldn’t convince him without it. Yeah, you’re Eric.”

“Wow.”

The Child looked up at the Thief, who was laying with his back across all the pillows, watching him with a small smile. He’d been rambling, hadn’t he? Oh, bother. Hopefully the Thief wasn’t too annoyed by him. The Child pulled his legs up and crossed them, hugging his legs to his chest in an effort to curl up into the smallest ball possible. He was so ashamed. 

The Thief rubbed the back of his neck and motioned for the Child to get in the bed, which he did without question. He pulled the cover up to his neck and snuggled in. Once he was done, the Thief leaned over, tucking him in even more and making sure he was all covered. 

His mind was still kinda….buzzing, after the Child’s assertions. “I don’t know if I’m all that,” he said, under his breath. 

It seemed he wasn’t quiet enough, though, because the Child responded. “You’re not,” he said, and the Thief breathed a small sigh of relief. 

Of course he wasn’t. Of course the Child didn’t think he was that cool. He was probably still just reeling from the end of the Little Mermaid. Sure, they’d watched another movie between that and now, but….

“You’re all that and more.”

The Thief looked down at the Child, who was watching him with the most fond smile. He snuggled into the blanket more and looked out the translucent walls, at the dark sky and starry night. 

“I think you’re really nice,” the Child’s statement was broken up by a yawn as he snuggled even further into the bed.

Within seconds, he was asleep. 

The Thief slumped against the pillows. 

He ran a hand through the Child’s hair, thinking about the interaction. So particular. The Child was just so positive, it was….a lot. 

No wonder the others only trusted him to take care of the kid. He’s way too positive for any of them to really handle. But that’s okay. 

The Thief — Eric, I guess — leaned forward and kissed the Child’s temple. He’d take care of him, wasn’t going to let anyone hurt him. He was going to listen. That was so much more than anyone else had been doing, but it was what the Child needed, what he deserved. Eric could sense the energy that basically dripped off of the Child, something that would be hard to cultivate and something that needed to be protected. And he was going to do whatever it took to make sure the Child stayed just as safe as he was now, swaddled in one of the Thief’s blankets, looking the most serene as he had in ages. 


	2. Draco

The Damsel hadn’t expected to  _ survive _ the brightness. No, he’d actually been perfectly content in fading away into nothingness, being recombined into Roman and having the essence of “the Damsel” fade back into imaginative energy. He truly hadn’t expected to wake up in the field, the same one that they’d started at, surrounded by the other seven. 

Maybe that’s why he ran. He didn’t think he’d have to face them any more, not after they all made up and said sorry. He didn’t think he’d exist. 

Damnit, and now he wasn’t even Roman. What was he?

The thunder boomed above, and he hugged himself a little tighter. It’d been a few days since their return and, frankly, the Damsel was making all the bad decisions. He was still wearing his torn uniform (was that just his clothing now….?) and, after sprinting away from all of the others, hid himself in an emptied out tree stump. He hadn’t any need to eat, nor any need to drink water, or technically even to rest, so he was doing without. At least, he thought he didn’t need to eat, until the hunger began to gnaw at his stomach awfully. When it started raining, he drank the rain water, but it was so cold. He hid in the stump, out of the pouring rain, and, you know, hoped that he’d eventually drop dead and disappear. 

But it appeared that they were capable of getting sick. The Damsel coughed into his elbow and rubbed his arms again. They weren’t capable of dying but they were capable of suffering, and that made a little bit of a difference, to the Damsel. 

For once in however long he could remember existing, the Damsel didn’t exactly want to suffer. He….

What did he want? 

Well, first things first, he kind of wanted dryness and warmth. But the only place he could think to go to was the castle or the Tree, and he would rather die than face the Thief again. He didn’t know if anyone was in the castle, though. 

It was a much farther walk, but it was one that he could probably make. 

He’d come to this conclusion muliple times over the days, but if he didn’t act soon, he’d just be prolonging the pain. 

Alright, then, Damsel. Up and at ‘em. 

He didn’t move. What was wrong with him, he knew he had to get up and go, he knew he had to MOVE. But he didn’t want to. He just curled up a little tighter and rubbed his good eye with the butt of his hand. 

He could just lay here for another day. Maybe tomorrow—

There was a large crash, somewhere out in the forest more, and the Damsel flinched in on himself. What was that? Was one of Remus’ beasts out and about, on Roman’s side of the Imagination? Usually Remus would restrain his more monstrous creations from getting this far, for fear of breaking something of Roman’s, but other times he would let his creations just cause chaos. It happened. Roman would retaliate by sending unicorns, soft things, music, across the divide as well. 

Focus, Damsel. It was so hard to think through the thundering in his head, he thought, until he realized that those sounds were just whatever was stomping about. It crashed and lumbered around, but the footsteps shrank, as though the beast were shrinking as well. It shrank and quieted until the Damsel could make out words amidst the grunts and whines of the animal. 

“Stupid fucking idiot making me feel fucking stupid,” and there was another crunch, something hitting a tree, “Goddamn fucking alone in the fucking castle with that stupid fucking prince like I’m some kinda fucking pet.” 

Oh. It was the Dragon. 

The Damsel did not want to see him. He sneezed into his arm, then groaned quietly. He absolutely didn’t want to see him. Who knew what the Dragon’d do?

There was another crack, more distant. It sounded like the Dragon was walking away, fighting trees as he went. What a fool. The Damsel figured he should move — if he wanted to get to the castle for help, then….

Hang on. The Damsel stood, wobbling on his legs, and realized that the Dragon had mentioned the castle. So Roman and him were there. Perhaps more of them. Perhaps all of them. The Damsel had no idea. But he knew Roman was there, but Roman he was very aware of, and Roman wouldn’t come down from the upper most floors, usually never, except to get to the front door out into the world.

….Honestly, still better than dealing with the Thief. Plus, the Dragon wasn’t in currently. If the Damsel managed to slide in unnoticed by him, then he could hide away in a dungeon or somewhere similarly unacknowledged. 

He coughed into his arm, holding his midsection as he climbed out of his hiding spot. He had to leave. 

Slowly, because he cannot move faster, the Damsel took a few steps toward the town, then leaned against one of the trees. Everything hurts. 

If he can just get a little closer, then maybe.

But then his throat burned, and he doubled over, coughing violently. Curses. He had barely had anything to drink, just rain, no wonder his throat is dry as paper. 

A branch snapped behind him, distantly. “Who’s there?!” came the shout. 

Fuck. The Dragon heard him. 

The Damsel stifled even more coughs, holding his own mouth shut as he shuffled forward further, hoping to hide around some trees. His leg caught a branch, though, and he fell. Without the energy to push himself up, he simply curled up on the ground, coughing into himself. 

What a pathetic display, especially for someone self-proclaiming as a Prince. 

Despicable. Disgusting.

He should just lay here and wither. 

The swooping of wind beside him, and he hears thick footsteps beside him. Then something blocked the rain above him, and the Damsel hides his face.

The Dragon hadn’t expected a person out here, not in this kinda weather. He crouched down, shielding the person with his wings and inspecting them. “Hey,” his voice has a tinge of a growl, it has since they found out that they hadn’t disappeared, and every day he’d grown more monstrous, just like Roman’d reminded him. “Who’re you?”

His tail swished behind himself, and he swated away his own hair, brushing it back behind his horns and reaching down. 

As soon as he touched the other person, though, they shivered and coughed violently into their own arms. The Dragon bit his lip. “Are you okay?” he whispered, trying to be gentler. Maybe he scared them.

The person shook their head. The Dragon wished he knew who they were; he can’t recognize them, what with their matted and messy blonde hair, pale skin. They were absolutely covered in bandages, though, and their clothing was hopelessly torn. Maybe Roman should take a look? It could be that someone from Remus’ side fled, escaped whatever dumb shit hewas cooking up on his half and made it over to Roman’s. 

“Here,” the Dragon reached down, gently pulling back their hair, and they froze. 

This person was missing an eye, cuts and scars over a permanently closed eyelid. They flinched away, but the Dragon saw enough, and he could fully them. 

“Prince?” he knelt down, wings lowering around the Damsel, “Or, or Damsel?” 

“H-Hello,” the Damsel’s voice was so strained, weak and croaky, and the Dragon could feel the warmth of his breath. 

Instinctively, the Dragon leaned down, resting the human-fleshed palm of his hand against the Damsel’s forehead. He hissed quietly upon feeling how hot he is — he was running a real high fever. Had he been out in the forest this whole time? The Dragon remembered waking up in the clearing, seeing some of the others. The Thief made a break for it. He thought he’d seen the Damsel run, too. Or was it the Prince? There were three people who ran. The Playwright and the Artist had stayed, confused, trying to discuss what had happened. The Child hid behind the Bard, who elected to traverse the town.

The Dragon didn’t want to stay for much of the meeting. It was incredibly awkward to wake up and find out that they were all going to be alive for another round of existing, even moreso when they all realized they’d woken up with minute changes. 

According to Roman, they were getting more grievous every day. Maybe he just said that to get on the Dragon’s nerves, though. Still, the changes were stark enough that the Dragon couldn’t even recognize the Damsel. He wasn’t used to the blond hair and freckled skin. Then again, the Dragon had scales now, actual scales in his hairline. Very different.

“How long’ve you been out here, Damsel?” the Dragon whispered, leaning down and rolling the Damsel back into his arms. 

It seemed that he’s too weak to retaliate. The Damsel’s eye — it’s blue now, the Dragon notes, a dark and stormy blue — rolled up to look at him, and while his face bore no recognition, his body loosened into the Dragon’s arms. 

He was so fucking weak. The Dragon had do something about this. He hadtake him somewhere, out of these woods definitely, but where? He didn’t know how the Damsel’s feeling about any of the others. Probably not good if he’d been out here hiding in the woods for….shit, how long’s it been? How long’s the Damsel been out here? Holy fuck?

The situation was getting worse the more the Dragon thinks about it, but he also didn’t want to bring him back for Roman. If Roman’s been a bitch to the Dragon, he can only imagine how much worse his opinion of the Damsel would be. God, yeah. 

Okay, but literally, where else is there to take him? Damnit, think! 

The Damsel groaned quietly as he felt the Dragon’s wings beat harsh, the rain finally pouring back against his face. They’re flying, given how tight the Dragon’s arms held him and how sharp the droplets of water felt on his face. It was frigid. 

He could feel himself fading off. The Damsel, well, Roman overall didn’t know what would happen to them if they could die. Could they die? The Damsel’s been testing that theory since day one and he still has no idea. He’s sure that, should they have been beheaded, they wouldn’t have regenerated. Right? Or maybe they’re Sides, and they’re playing by Side rules, and they just blatantly couldn’t die. He’s certainly been alive longer than he should be. 

The Dragon landed, the Damsel could feel it in the way he slowed and touched down, but he still didn’t have the energy to open his eye. 

Quiet and slow, he drifted in and out of consciousness. Hands travel around his body, taking the tatters of his uniform off of him. His body was scrubbed. The dirt of about a week rolled off and the Damsel found himself melting further into the sensation of being taken care of, into the hands so soft that cared for him. 

He felt himself be dried, someone rubbing a towel through his hair and around his chest. They lifted his arm and he just kinda took it, but when they move the other he whines. There’s somehow still a bruise. Maybe a broken bone? He doesn’t know. The same goes for his leg, when the person tried to move it, the same one that had been broken prior. How had it not healed? Well, okay, but it feels weird that they all woke up after that bright light thing and his leg was still broken. Was it just broken?

Either way, they picked him up, and the Damsel leaned into their chest, exhausted. He wanted to say thanks. He didn’t deserve that kind of treatment, that kind of love and care, but he found that he couldn’t move his mouth. He was barely remembering to breathe given how tired he is. 

The person lowered him into a bed and tucked him in. The Damsel didn't remember being put in a new set of clothing, soft and cotton, but he felt them when he lays down. His head lolled to the side and unconsciousness took him for real this time, just as someone slid their hand into his, gripping tight.

When he finally came to, the Damsel found that he was in next to no pain. He was laying with his back on a few pillows and the bed, blanket tucked beneath his arms. He was apparently too tired to even move in his sleep. Amazing. His arms shifted, the wounded one burning in pain just enough to be noticeable but also noticeably less than prior. Had he been out long enough for his fucking arm to heal? Holy shit?

“You’re awake!” the Damsel’s eye opened groggily up at his savior. 

The Dragon was sitting beside him, setting down some knitting equipment in his lap. Hang on. Knitting. He’s  _ knitting _ ? What the heck? Okay?

The Damsel squinted at him, hand gripping the bed sheet as he looked around and saw himself in one of the castle’s spare rooms. 

Oh. Had the Dragon taken care of him? The Damsel thought that the Dragon would be extra mad at him, especially after how much he’d manipulated him. Also, didn’t he have claws? How had his hands been so gentle?

As if he could read minds, the Dragon’s tail wrapped around his own leg while he watched the Damsel slowly take in his surroundings, catching up with the situation. “Sorry, if you’ve got any scratches,” the Dragon murmured, shuffling the yarn off of his lap and standing, “I really tried but, like….I’m covered in scales.”

“You were extraordinarily soft,” the Damsel responded, looking up at him, “Thank-Thank you.”

The Dragon’s wings perked up, and he stood minutely straighter as a smile grew on his own lips. It’s….nice. To see him happy. The Damsel smiled back. 

The movement made his throat itch, though, and then the illness clawed its way back up his trachea. The Damsel jerked forward, covering his mouth with his good arm as he coughed into the crook of his elbow, body shivering with every bought. He felt the Dragon’s hand close around his shoulder, holding him steady and pulling him closer into what feels kinda like a hug. 

And, like earlier, the Damsel was too tired to fight back. Had the Dragon gotten stronger? He’d definitely gotten scalier. There were scales traveling up the top of his hands, out from the thick bone claws of his nails. His grip was more firm, and his arms, well. The Damsel wasn’t complaining that he was wrapped in these arms. 

He still couldn’t understand it, though. Why was the Dragon helping him? He didn’t know if he deserved help from anyone, let alone one of the people he wronged the most during their royal battle royale. 

As soon as the Damsel could breathe steady again — the Dragon handed him a glass of water which he sipped gratefully — he leaned back against the pillows and sighed. 

It was all so confusing. He thought he’d be hated. But here the Dragon was, looking down at him with a worried brow. 

“....Why?” the Damsel found himself asking, “Why are-Why-Why are you helping m-helping me?”

The Dragon’s eye brows rose slowly, as though he was surprised that it was a question. “You’re my friend. I’m not gonna leave you outside in the rain,” he said, hands rubbing together as his tail swished nervously, “You were hurt, too. I’m not a….”

The Damsel frowned when he stalled out, but the Dragon shook his head, and motioned to the water, expression suddenly guarded and tense. The Damsel hoped he hasn’t said anything wrong. It’s just truly a confusion situation. 

“You’re not-not a what?” he asked again. 

The Dragon stepped back a bit more, and now his pointed teeth chewed his lip as he considered of the repercussions of telling the Damsel what Roman’s called him. He shook his head again. “I just wasn’t gonna leave you,” he said, stating firmer, “We’re friends.”

“Oh?” 

That’s surprising, too. Since when were they friends? The Damsel’s not even sure if the Dragon called him a friend when they were supposed cohorts scheming to kill everyone, and now they’re, what, friends? What does being friends even mean in this context, in this location and situation? 

What were they? What were they to Roman, what were they to each other, to the other Sides, to Thomas? Did Thomas even know they were alive? That they existed? That Roman had torn himself into eight—no, seven, seven pieces for him?

Where was he Damsel getting this whole “eight” thing from. He couldn’t remember.

Roman was no longer the Damsel’s concern, he had to remind himself. Roman would figure that out. Roman was Roman now. 

Still, in the present, where the Dragon didn’t know what the Damsel was thinking, he wilted. The Dragon thought they were friends. 

“I mean, I think you’re my friend,” the Dragon sat down on the edge of the Damsel’s bed, and he hated himself for how happy he is that the Damsel didn’t flinch away like every other god damn person he’s interacted with. 

The Damsel didn’t look like he’s buying it, though, so the Dragon let his tail rest on the bed and folded his wings up against his back, trying to look nonthreatening as he explains. 

“I feel like we got off on really weird footing. It wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t good, you know? We ain’t got nothing to do with Prince Peabrain anymore. We can be who we wanna be,” the Dragon smiled warmly at the Damsel, and doesn’t hold out a hand, but gestured so he gets the point, “And I wanna be your friend.”

Oh. Goodness. 

He wants to be friends. 

Before he knew it, the Damsel began to cry. His eye watered, and he sniffed, and he reached up, and he hid his face in his hand. He’s crying. 

The Dragon was speaking in full earnest. He could tell, hear it in how tender his voice is. Oh, goodness. 

“I-I’m sorry,” the Damsel whispered, wiping his eye with the palm of his hand, “I’m so sorry, that-I don’t….I don’t know what came over me.”

The Dragon’s still just watching, though his tail had stiffened. The Damsel didn’t know what that means. 

“It’s okay, I getcha,” the Dragon chuckled, and while no fire or smoke escaped his mouth, the Damsel felt a bit of the warmth, “Drink more water, though, you’re gonna get die-dated.”

“D….Die-dated?” the Damsel asked, sipping some more water.

“Yeah, you know, that thing Logan talks about when he says we need to drink more water,” the Dragon says.

It took a few moments for the thought to click, and then the Damsel drinks even more water. He knows what the Dragon’s talking about; he’s not about to rub in the Dragon’s face that he can’t say the word “dehydrated” correct. “Thank you,” is all he said, “Friend.”

That got the Dragon to grin even wider, his tail gently smacking excitedly against the bed. And before he could stop himself, he even blurted out, “I have a name, too!”

He’s so cute when he’s excited. “Oh, you do?” the Damsel shifted his bad arm a tiny bit onto his lap, so he can hold the glass of water with both, “Does everyone?”

The Dragon shrugged. He hasn’t seen….most of them since the first day. He’s seen glimpses of the Artist, holding stacks and stacks of papers, but they don’t interact. And he’s seen the Thief. It’s like the dude’s kink to break into his gold storage room and, to be honest, the Dragon’s not fucking having it. He’s never asked either if they had names before, though.

“Nah, I don’t know. Roman said I should—”

The Damsel’s visage darkened a little at the mention of Roman. “Roman’s a-around?” he asked, glancing at the door with unhidden fear. 

That’s kinda nice, that the Dragon’s friend also doesn’t like Roman. He reached over, not to touch, but to redirect the Damsel’s attention away. “Yeah, he is, this’ his actual castle. You don’t wanna see him, though, I think we freak him out,” the Dragon made a so-so hand motion while pulling a face, “Kinda like looking at a bunch of funhouse mirrors, right?”

That was fairly deep for the Dragon. Huh. Guess times are changing. The Damsel hummed in agreement. “I can-can guess, and we do-and we do look quite different,” he whispered.

The Dragon chuckled. Of course he looks different. The ridges on his tail stand up, then shiver and lay back down.

He’s only grown more monstrous. Not much else. Monster, beast, whatever works. 

“So do you,” the Dragon huffed, “I think we’re all a lil’ different.” 

The Damsel smiled a little at him. “I like your new hair-new haircut,” he said.

Oh. Of all the differences, the Damsel noticed that? The Dragon felt his face heat up, cheeks going slack as he thought a little about how much of his being the Damsel was looking at to notice that his hair had gotten shorter. And that he’d focused on the hair and not the minute scales that shimmered around the Dragon’s hairline. 

“Thanks,” he said, dumbly, “I like your freckles.”

And now it’s the Damsels turn to blush. He lifted his good arm to his cheek, hiding some of his face in it, and he looked down. 

“Thanks,” he whispered, smiling into his hand, “I didn’t re-didn’t realize I had freckles.”

“You do. A lot,” the Dragon whispered, “They’re like little stars.”

Okay, the Damsel had to change the conversation or he was going to implode. “That is quite different. You said you had a name?”

“Oh, right,” maybe he was getting cold feet, but when he mentioned the name thing, the Dragon’s tail curled up around his lap a little more. 

The Damsel raised his eyebrows, was about to ask if the Dragon didn’t want to tell him. It would have been fine if he did, the Damsel didn’t care. He didn’t even have a name. But the Dragon seemed to weigh his options and glance back with concern. 

Then he asked something that worried the Damsel even more. “Promise you won’t laugh?”

His voice was so soft, afraid, it was clear that someone had in the past. Who would have done that?

Okay, dumb question. He had a hunch, and he hoped it wasn’t true.

The Damsel shook his head. “Why would I laugh? It’s your name. It’s im-It’s you. It’s important.”

The Dragon’s wings pulled tighter again. 

“Roman did,” he said quietly.

Okay, that made the Damsel’s blood boil. His hands gripped the bed sheets even tighter, and his face shifted into a harsh glare, punctuated by the single gaping eye hole and his dark blue eye. Even though he was weak, in bed, and positively broken, the Damsel still managed to look terrifying; the Dragon leaned away a tiny bit. 

“Oh, did he?” the Damsel whispered. “That undeserving moronic asshole.” 

He looked up at the ceiling and exhaled slowly. 

Let go of the anger, Damsel. 

“Luckily, I am not Roman,” he looked down at the Dragon and tried for a smile, holding out his hand. 

The Dragon blinked, not expecting something so forward. He smiled a little, too, and held it. 

This was nice. He looked down at his lap. 

Well. Here goes nothing.

“My, uh. My name’s Draco,” the Dragon said, and he felt the heat rise on his face. 

This was only the second time he’d said his name aloud and it still didn’t really feel real. That he had a name now. It was cool. 

And the Damsel didn’t laugh. In fact, he squeezed Draco’s hand and smiled again. “Draco,” he repeated, and something inside Draco felt immeasurably warm when he said it, “Draco. That’s a lo-lovely name. Why?”

“Oh, uh, I binge watched Harry Potter a few days ago,” Draco grinned, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly, “I mean, Draco was kinda a bad kid, but he wasn’t bad all the way. He saved Harry at the end there. And yeah, it was late, and yeah, he’d hurt a lot of people before that, but at least he….he figured it out at the end.”

At least, that was what had been running through his mind when he picked it. Draco and him were similar in that they had a lot of people they’d hurt, a lot of sins to atone for. But he liked to think….well, maybe it was stupid. He was kinda stupid. But he liked to think that he deserved forgiveness just as much as the kid did. He made a lot of misguided mistakes, too. Maybe he could be better. Draco sure could try, sure did try, to be better.

He doesn’t notice that he’d been starring at his own hands until the Damsel gently held one. Draco blinked, looking again at his claws, now juxtaposed against the Damsel’s scarred, pale hands. 

His fingers were slender, soft, even though there were callouses near his palms. Despite the Damsel’s week in the forrest, he still had a dainty air about him. Something reminiscent of royalty. Nothing could wash the regalia of being the Prince off of him, it seemed. 

“I th-think that’s a beautiful reason, Draco,” the Damsel’s voice was soft, too. 

Draco looked up, grinning a little at the Damsel. “Thanks,” he said, “You should head to sleep. I’ll grab some food from the kitchen for you, but you’re runnin’ a fever. Maybe I can grab someone to check on your temperature, too.”

The Damsel nodded. He seemed to be falling asleep, too, given how relaxed he was now compared to when he woke up. His hand never left Draco’s though. 

“Tha-Thank you. Draco,” the Damsel smiled a little, closing his eyes and letting out a long sigh, “Draco.” 

It was a nice name. The Damsel was asleep in a few minutes, the most restful sleep he’d had since the beginning. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me? ship my own characters? who'd've thunk?
> 
> also, i should say that this all happens after the events of "chivalry is dead," though before the final prologue!


	3. David

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: a lot of anger, destruction of property, bullying, mentioned child abuse, mentioned death, mentioned illness
> 
> if i forgot any!!! please let me know!!! enjoy <3

“IT’S NOT RIGHT!”

The Playwright flicked his book to another page, ignoring the shredded canvas that goes flying above his head. Whenever the Artist was in a mood, he would supervise the area, make sure he didn’t hurt himself. But at least the Artist’s anger was getting redirected to the canvas itself. 

Then again, mindless screaming wasn’t going to fix Roman’s creative block. Aptly addressing the circumstances was necessary. Of course, though, this was the Artist. He didn’t listen to things like reason.

“Screaming at it won’t make anything,” the Playwright reminded him.

“Oh, fuck off!” the Artist snarled, whipping around to the Playwright. 

A splatter of purple paint flew off of the paintbrush in his hand, flicking onto the Playwright’s clothing. The Playwright shot the Artist an annoyed look and waved his hand, and the splotch of purple disappeared. 

Instead of apologizing, the Artist just crossed his arms. 

“If I left, who would make sure you ate?” the Playwright asked. 

The Artist rolled his eyes. He probably shouldn’t have gotten paint on the Playwright. He shouldn’t have yelled at him, either. 

“I don’t need to eat,” the Artist argued.

“Au contraire,  _ I _ don’t need to eat,” the Playwright said, “You like to perpetuate the lie that you don’t need to eat, because you forget to eat constantly.”

Smartass. The Artist scowled at the Playwright again and put his paintbrush in the water cup by his easel. He’d set up the paintings around the room, putting them up instead of stacking them where he couldn’t see. The Playwright said it would be a good idea, let him see the good in what he created. But there were so few he was proud of. So few that were worth whatever space was on the wall 

God, he was so SHIT at his job. The Artist stepped back from the now empty easel and squatted down, hands coiling through his hair. It’d gotten long. The Playwright said they’d slowly developed forms, distinct from Roman, because they were individuals now. Different from Sides. More like advisors. He didn’t know what kind of advisor, though, the Artist didn’t think he should be an advisor. 

What kind of advice could he give? Advice on art? The shit he sucked at? What a fucking joke. 

“Art, honey,” the Playwright’s voice cut through his mangled thoughts, “Breathe. I’m proud of you for attempting.”

A gentle hand slid between the space between his arm and his shoulder. The Playwright’s hand found its way to his cheek, wiping away the tears that the Artist hadn’t even realized were forming. “This is likely indicative that Roman is entering a creative block, likely due to his burnout. You need to take a break.”

“But I-I-He needs me to make,” the Artist hissed, “Maybe it is a creative block but, like….I hate being so fucking useless.”

The Playwright’s hand fell, wrapping around the Artist’s shoulders while his other wrapped around his chest. And then he pulled up.

While the Artist is quite stout (he had the brawn of a man who could chisel marble), the Playwright had a much more lithe form, so lifting him was a task. He grunted, pulling up some more, but the Artist wouldn’t really budge. 

“Work with me here, come on,” the Playwright grunted.

God, he was so fucking cute. The Artist sighed, hands finally letting go of his hair as he stood up, numbly following the up and back onto the couch. He sat down slow as the Playwright curled up beside him, summoned a blanket to wrap around the two of them. And as much as the Artist wanted to hold onto this anger, this passion, it was so easy for him to let his tense shoulders go and lay back onto the Playwright’s shoulder. 

The Playwright summoned a pillow, too, and set it by the Artist’s other side. It was good to box him in. It made him feel more comfortable. 

Whatever he was doing was working, because the Artist pulled his knees up, kicking his sandals off and curling into the Playwright’s side. “There you go,” the Playwright said, brushing his hand through the Artist’s hair. 

It was much longer now. He always had it tied back; that increased pressure on the head. Carefully, the Playwright untied his hair, running his fingers through the Artist’s hair in a slow and soothing motion. 

They didn’t need to talk. Though they often did, the Playwright knew that the Artist had to simmer down before broaching the subject of why he was angered. But he could make some guesses. Increased workload from Roman always did the trick, and given the impending creative block, it only made sense that the prince was pushing to make more. 

“May I ask?” the Playwright whispered. 

The Artist nodded. “Sure.”

There was a pause. It was a heavy question, one he knew that the Artist wouldn’t like, but one that had to be asked.

“What did Roman say?”

The Artist did not want to answer that one, but it was a fair question. He had been out all day, at Roman’s castle, the two of them brainstorming new possible ideas for a video. The Artist had prepared at least a hundred before today. Roman had nixed them all. He removed his glasses, setting them aside on the floor and rubbing his face with both hands. 

“What  _ didn’t _ he say. That I’m a mess. Incompetent. Useless. Can’t make anything worthwhile,” the Artist’s hands gripped his hair as he starred at the ground, “I hate him.”

“As you may,” the Playwright waved his hand, for the Artist to continue.

Which he did, throwing his arms into the air and wringing them. “He thinks we, like, serve him or something! He treats us like his fucking servants!” the Artist jumped back onto his feet, pacing, gesticulating wildly with every accusation, “Roman keeps snapping at the Dragon, that’s why he flies out of the castle every other day! He’s just so mad! Roman thinks he’s all that and a Picasso, thinks he’s such a masterpiece!

“Well,” the Artist stopped in front of the Playwright, who was pulling the blanket up around himself, snuggling in for the longhaul as his partner rambled, “He is a REAL piece of work is what he is! As if this is any way to treat the parts of himself! I don’t know what’s gotten into him, he’s just-he’s acting like a big fuckin’ asshole. As if he could make anything better than I could!”

As the Artist wound down, the Playwright conjured a mug of tea and took a sip, mulling over the details. Truthfully, he hadn’t seen Roman after they reformed. No one had, save for the Artist, as far as he knew. Maybe the Dragon, if he still lived in the castle. But the ways in which the Artist described Roman certainly failed to paint a chivalrious picture, wasn’t anything like how the Playwright rememebered him. As much as the Playwright didn’t want to admit it, that made bile sit thick in his stomach. Why didn’t Roman contact him? Or any of the others, why was he just hounding the Artist?

How were the others faring, though. If the Artist was this discontented, surely the Dragon was as well. And the Bard, who he’d seen a few times roaming around the town. 

Oh, god, speaking of the others—the Child. How they’d failed with the Child. Of course, with the Artist constantly working, he failed to take care of the sun. The Playwright didn’t actually have human needs, managing to go weeks without eating nor sleeping (he considered it a curse more than a blessing) but the Artist’s self-negligence trickled down onto the Child until they caught him eating bugs off of the ground. 

Giving him away to the Thief was their best bet. The Thief would take care of him. He was good at that, taking care of things, and there hadn’t been so much of a peep from the tree since they left him there about a week ago. Now if only the Playwright could take care of the fucking Artist. 

At least the Artist seemed to have run out of steam. The Playwright had been watching him pace slower and slower, until he slowly nudged the Playwright’s arms, which opened up the blanket cocoon for him once more. The Artist sat down, nestled against the Playwright’s side, and conjured himself a mug of tea. 

“I just wish I were fucking good enough for him,” the Artist mumbled.

Indistinctly, in the back of his mind, the Playwright wished for the same. 

“Have any of the others been to see him?” the Playwright asked, hoping to change the topic.

The Artist shrugged. “Don’t know. He hasn’t talked about anyone except the Dragon, only to talk about how much of a bitch he is. He said he just needs me.”

That had hurt him. The Artist remembered the way he’d said it, like it was something the Artist should be proud of. And he was. It was really nice to be needed. But, well….

The Playwright shuddered. Oh, god, they…. “We never even checked to see if the Damsel was alive,” he murmured.

That brought a blanket of silence over them both. They shared a glance, which the Playwright broke, starring at the ground. 

They should have looked, after the Damsel ran away. It’s been horrifying, to think one of them is somewhere in the Imagination, alone, damaged, probably dying even more. The Playwright did search for a few days after, but by then….

Either the Damsel didn’t want to be found, or he was dead somewhere, if that was even possible. Perhaps permanent unconsciousness. 

The Playwright shivered, hugging himself. “We should have looked for him,” he murmured.

The Artist seemed to share his sentiments as he sighed, taking off his glasses and rubbing his face. He leaned forward, turning and falling onto the couch beside the Playwright. “We should have done a lot of things. I shoulda treated the kid better,” he mumbled, and the Playwright snorted.

“You’re bad at people,” he said with a shrug.

Before he could elaborate, though, the Artist waved his hands. “I am, so sue me!”

“You brought the Child up.”

“Look!” the Artist exclaimed amidst the Playwright’s growing giggles, “Just because I’m smart doesn’t mean I’m not stupid!”

“Oh, don’t worry, I’m very aware,” the Playwright laughed into his hand, and then wrapped them around the Artist’s shoulders, resting his chin on his collar. 

That had certainly lightened the mood. The Artist wrapped an arm around the Playwright’s waist and pulled him closer, putting his legs over the Playwrights as they bundled beneath the blanket. 

“How do you feel?” the Playwright asked. 

The Artist sighed. Truth be told, he still felt like shit, but the Playwright had spent a lot of energy just trying to make him better. 

“Okay enough,” he said, resting his glasses on his head, “Thanks, darl’.” 

The Playwright ran his hand through the Artist’s hair again, and the Artist closed his eyes. It was nice. Relaxing. He melted into the Playwright like candle wax, soft and comfortable. 

“You are one hundred percent good enough, for what you do. I would hazard to say that you are great at what you do. However, what you do is not holistic of what Roman is expected to do or be,” the Playwright sighed, resting his lips against the Artist’s head and pulling him even closer. “You are only one part. It’s like how he demands himself to be everything that Thomas needs, despite that he is simply Creativity. Nothing more yet nothing less.”

The Artist snorted, but his grip on the Playwright’s shirt softened, if only a little. He tilted his head up, meeting the Playwright’s eyes. 

Adversity truly does breed camaraderie. The Playwright lifted his hand slowly and brought it to his lips, pressing a soft kiss against the Artist’s knuckles. “You aren’t Atlas, my dear. Maybe Roman’s making it feel like you have to carry the world, but that is Roman. You are the Artist.”

He licked his lips, listening to the Playwright’s words. Would….Would now be a good time to bring up….?

The Playwright was quiet, as though ready for the Artist to respond. It was now or never, I guess. 

“I, uh….I’m David,” the Artist whispered. 

The Playwright blinked, though the Artist didn’t look up to see his surprise. He just kept starring at his own hand, though he was more focused on  _ not _ looking up. 

“While we were, uh, brainstorming. I did a few really tiny creative exercises. One was, um….I gave myself a name,” he spoke as slow as he could, to make sense of it in his own head as well as to convey the situation to the Playwright. “I told Roman. He said he couldn’t believe we were naming ourselves. Said I wasn’t good enough for the name.”

David would never forget the absolute disdain in Roman’s voice, the way he looked down at him as though David were something unrecognizable, something completely foreign. It was an odd experience. Roman had shaken his head and called it a day on the spot. He still didn’t know what was truly the problem, in the moment he’d chalked it up to Roman not liking that he was so independent now. But honestly, Roman also could just not like….him.

“David,” said man looked up at the Playwright, who was watching him fondly, a smile on his face, “David. Did you pick it, David?”

Hearing him say his name this many times was, uh. Something. His ears turned a little red as he nodded. “Yeah. Based on the, uh—”

“Michaelangelo’s statue, David?” the Playwright asked, and David nodded. 

His Artist was so smart. The Playwright nodded, hugging him in a tight squeeze before relenting by pressing a kiss into his forehead. “I love it, David. It’s a lovely name. And it means I was right that you yourself are an artistic masterpiece.”

That was definitely wrong or something — David snorted in disbelief. “Yeah, right, take that up with the big man.”

“Roman is of average build, and metaphorically, he is not our boss,” the Playwright countered.

David rolled his eyes, squinting angrily at the couch. “His ego sure is big,” he grumbled.

“Now,” the Playwright waved his finger, “The Dragon and I are the only ones who are tall enough to be called ‘big,’ Roman is….oh. Oh.”

That made the most sense, of course. “Perhaps the Dragon has a name now.”

David raised an eyebrow. “How do you figure that?” he asked.

“Well, his raging in the forest indicates that he’s disgruntled with Roman, especially if he’s still living in the castle. That, paired with his drive for independence and Roman’s particular wording of us, the figments of him, naming ourselves, means someone else of our calliber has named themselves. The only one of us who associates with him enough, often enough for him to have known their name before yours, is—”

“The Dragon,” David blinked, “Oh.”

Of course. No wonder Roman was so pissed. Shit, man, he just hated all of them, didn’t he. 

“Precisely,” the Playwright said, conjuring his tea again and taking another sip, “We should have a meeting.”

“Ditto,” David yawned after that, snuggling more into the Playwright’s chest.

“After you sleep,” the Playwright added. 

But he wasn’t tired. Was he? Damn these human forms. David snuggled against his chest some more and patted his own shirt twice. He felt it switch, from his dirtied, paintstained sweater into a clean one, warm and nice. “Lets just sleep here,” he murmured.

“On….the couch. You want me to sit on the couch for four hours?”

“You can sleep with me, paperweight,” David’s voice rumbled from further into his stomach, indicating his tiredness, the adrenaline crash from his anger earlier, “Just close your eyes.”

“Let me reiterate; on the couch?” 

David growled quietly but patted the couch cushion. It lowered, flattening out as the Playwright chuckled into his ear and pulled him to lay down. Pillows appeared beneath their heads, unnecessary as the couch turned into a bed and as the Playwright let David rest his head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat. Inhuman as he was, the man still had a heart, loud and clear and careful and loving. David smiled a tiny bit. 

“Now’s ok?” he asked.

The Playwright gently twirled some of David’s hair around one of his fingers, then pulled his shoulder closer. David could feel the Playwright’s clothing also shift, likely into his pajamas as well. The Scrooge asshole always wore actual matching pajamas, but he looked cute in them, so whatever. 

“This is perfect,” the Playwright’s voice was so quiet now, “Sleep well.”

David was already fading, tired more than he’d even realized, but he pulled himself up to the Playwright’s face slowly. He reached one groggy hand up and pulled the Playwright’s glasses off, and then kisses his cheek, lips resting just for a second before the Playwright pulled his head back down and kissed his lips. What a fucking sap. David giggled into him, hands gripping the Playwright’s shirt as he let his partner settle him wherever he saw comfortable.

“I love you, darling,” David murmured.

His eyes were closed before he could see the Playwright’s smile, but he felt it all the same. “I love you, too, David.”


	4. Cadence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: getting put to sleep, scratches, blood, wounds, sword mention
> 
> also, shout out to Jack Johnson's song "Lullaby"!

“So.” Eric looked up at the Bard, who was smiling at him from across the kitchen island. “Eric. Huh.”

Eric smiled back. The Bard was over occassionally, something about liking his company (he didn’t have the emotional capacity to dwell on that too long, thank you very much) and today was one of those days where he’d just pop in and steal his food. Eric didn’t really understand him, but the Bard was one of the only people that he could stand for long periods of time, so he didn’t complain about his presence. 

They were both cradling mugs of tea, wind howling outside as they all enjoyed a nice day inside. It had been raining earlier, and that’s not good for Eric’s thieving escapades, since it makes the castle’s exterior slippery. Maybe that’s how the Bard knew he’d be home.

“That’s what the kid said,” Eric shrugged, “Besides, not like getting called a thief every day’s very nice.”

“My name’s the Child,” the Child piped up from where he’s situated, on the ground in front of the coffee table, “Thank you ve~ery much!”

The Bard chuckled while Eric turned around, shooting the Child a stinkeye matched with a fond smile. 

What could he say? The kid grew on him. “Well, thanks to  _ you _ , my name’s Eric. We’re gonna have to think of a good one for you, kid,” he raised his mug of tea to the Child and tapped the table twice while he turns back around. 

“That’ll be fun,” the Child said, turning back himself to the leaves he was playing with. 

It turned out he wasn’t as completely useless as the Artist said! He could make small things! Like leaves. The Child focused—he wanted a green one, with pretty dark veins that twisted out from its center, looking like an upside down heart. He closed his hands into small fists and then held them out, and then the leave landed right in his hands. 

Score! He giggled, hand closing around the leaf’s stem and picking up the others he’d made. Maybe he can make some wire for a flower crown. Maybe he can make a flower! 

He really was just a ball of potential, wasn’t he. The Bard smiled as the Child began to wrap the leaf stems around each other, orange fall leaves mixed in with the beautiful greens and the baby sprouts that he’d made. It was interesting to see how much he could do, especially since none of them had forgotten how well he fought against the Prince, well, the Damsel. It was like he had a little bit of Roman in every regard. 

No one really knows how he won that fight, though. Even the Child. Maybe it was really just all Remus. 

The Bard likes to think it’s luck. The kid’s lucky, wouldn’t that be something. Eric took a sip of his tea, just watching the Bard watch the Child, until he turned his direction back to Eric himself. “You must be a good dad. He seems a lot happier here.”

Eric snorted. “Not a high standard. Did you know Artist doesn’t know how to use an oven?” 

“I mean, it’s not like that Gold-berg machine needs to eat. Must be easy to forget when it’s not something you’ve gotta do,” the Bard leaned back, but his hands stayed on his mug of tea, “They just don’t get how good food tastes. Last time I saw the Playwright, he made fun of me for drinking a smoothie”

“Mhm.” Eric rolled his eyes before realizing, “You eat, though, right?”

The Bard sighed, spinning his mug slowly around on the table. “Sadly. If I didn’t have to, then it’d be way easier to keep my figure. Sure didn’t get imagined looking like a snack,” he patted his own hip, smirking in a playful way, “This takes work.”

He laughed, but Eric could just think of how wrong he was. The Bard was….beautiful. 

And then there’s that feature of the Bard’s visits. Eric wasn’t sure how he hadn’t picked up on it, because everyone in the Imagination knew about his crush, but the Bard seemed just as ignorant to his adoration as ever. Or maybe he was just playing him. 

It wasn’t Eric’s fault he didn’t retain, like, any of Roman’s romantic capacity. He had no clue how to flirt. He couldn’t even tell if this was flirting.

“But, I guess it means I’m a good cook,” he zoned back into what the Bard was saying after staring at his lips for a solid minute, “I could cook something one of these days.”

“Oh, no way. Guests don’t cook in my house,” Eric said, shaking his head and taking another sip.

The Bard took a sip, too, and grinned over his mug. “Are you inviting me to dinner?” 

Oh. Nevermind, he could tell that was flirting. But now his face was heating up. Eric swallowed a cough and tried to force the most nonchalant grin onto his face as he could. “What if I am?” he responded.

The Bard watched him for a second, an unreadably sly smile on his face, and Eric felt like prey. He just waited for the Bard to strike, say something snarky—maybe the Bard would keep flirting, or maybe he would just laugh, maybe he thought Eric was stupid for even trying, what kind of idiot was he, maybe he knew what he had been trying to do but thought he was too stupid or too ugly himself or too weak or not enough, why did he try, could he take it back, it was too late to take it back—

The Bard put his mug down and ruffled Eric’s long hair. “If you insist, Gordon Ramsey. I wouldn’t turn down a meal from my favorite chef,” he laughed happily, “I’d love to stay for dinner.”

Eric tried to make his sigh of relief not obvious. The hairs on the back of his neck don’t go down for the entire time he cooks up some lasagna and sautéed bell peppers and asparagus, and while he’s cooking he can feel the Bard’s eyes on him sometimes. 

It was….he hadn’t really expected company until he heard the soft knock on the door, opened it to the Bard standing there with his cocky grin. He didn’t have a jacket and he sweet talked his way in, but it was indeed much warmer inside, so of course Eric would let him. He’d even let him stay the night. 

That begged the question, though...where did the Bard even live? It was a trend for the past month or so, ever since they reformed, that the Bard would end up on his doorstep immediately before any extreme weather. Once, when it rained over night, the Bard asked to sleep over. He took the couch downstairs, but Eric wasn’t thinking too hard about it back then. Now, though, Eric was worried that the Bard doesn’t actually have a place to stay at. 

If he doesn’t, though, well….Eric would happily take him in. As they all sat down to eat, the Child pulling himself a chair beside the Bard and chowing down immediately, Eric decided to ask. 

“Hey, Bard. Where do you live?” It’s not the most tactful way to ask, but he’s not exactly the people-person side. 

The Bard choked a little on his rice but, once he swallowed it, pondered. “Wherever I can,” is where he landed, shrugging nonchalantly and returning to his meal.

That was a very….distinct nonanswer that just gave Eric more questions. Given how the Child’s eating had quieted too, it seemed that they were on very similar boats. 

“Wait, wait, you don’t have a home?” the Child asked. “Or a bed?”

“My hammock’s set up in the woods behind the castle, so I do have a bed,” the Bard corrected.

He rolled his eyes, giving Eric a look that was almost expecting him to agree, but Eric was just as worried as the Child was. He put his spoon down beside his bowl of soup and shook his head. 

“A hammock isn’t a bed,” the Child argued. The Bard crossed his arms while he continued. “And it isn’t a house, either.”

“Well, I don’t have any big creative powers, and I don’t exactly want to live with the  _ Artist _ , so I just put up—”

“Stay here,” Eric said. Found himself saying. The words were so obvious once he found himself saying them. 

The Bard raised his eyebrows. The Child, too, starred at Eric for a longer second. Both were surprised. Of course, that was a nice sentiment, a fun little plan, but was Eric serious? Didn’t he remember decking the Bard earlier? They were on better terms now but it was kinda hard to forget something as brutal as a good decking. 

But Eric didn’t seem to be joking. He nodded at the stairwell and began to pull up more of the noodles with his chopsticks. “My bed’s big enough. If sleeping that close to the kid and me’s weird for you, you can sleep downstairs. But stay here. You need someplace safe.”

“The woods’re safe enough,” the Bard tried to argue but Eric shook his head. 

“No. They aren’t,” and then he added, “I’d know.”

“Oh?” the Bard crossed his arms.

He hated it when Eric pretended to be so hoity toity, all knowing and above everyone else. It happened sometimes when he talked about the others, any of them. Even him or the Child. Eric thought he was so smart and good at holding things together. 

Even now, he raised an eyebrow at the Bard and just kept drinking his soup slowly. Like he could see through him. Like he could see the loneliness that followed the Bard as thick as his cloak. 

“Yeah. They aren’t,” Eric averted his eyes after some time, but the tension stayed, “Remus’ shit gets to our side out of the woods sometimes. It’s dangerous.”

The Bard’d never seen that kind of stuff before. Then again, it might be because he ties his hammocks higher up. Once, a deer woke him up by knocking its antlers against his hammock, and that was a weird morning. But ever since the blast of light, he hadn’t wanted to get in anyone’s way. Why would anyone want him around, too? He had less of an actual purpose, compared to everyone else. He did a good job at entertaining the townspeople. Hell, he was even on good terms with Sleep and many of the other Shorts characters! Probably better terms than any of the others. It was just easier for the Bard to stay secluded, away from all of the others. 

Besides, keeping himself away meant he wouldn’t annoy Eric or the Child, or the Artist or any of the others. That’s why this storm was especially annoying. It’d been a month of living out in the woods, doing fine! Hell, he’d only stopped to hide in Eric’s house a handful of times, all when the weather was sure to get him sick. But he couldn’t risk being an annoyance. 

“Sure, Jan,” he stood up, rolling his eyes in a good-natured way, “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“But at least stay the night,” Eric repeated, voice softer now.

As if on cue, the wind howled once more outside, and they could hear the tree’s leaves quiver in the harsh storm. Eric, the Bard, and the Child all glanced at the small porthole windows to see the leaves falling off and swirling about in gusts. 

When he looked away, the Bard saw Eric giving him a small grin. It was a nice sentiment, and a kind offer, especially in this kind of weather. 

Agh, sleeping outside would not be good for him. The Bard had to accept that. He leaned forward, both hands beneath his chin, until he was just a centimeter away from Eric. He could feel the warmth radiating off of his skin. “Fine,” he pouted lightly, “But I wanna sleep in the big bed, if you think it’s big enough to fit all of us.”

Eric looked down at the Bard’s lips quickly before leaning back. This was close. This was really close. His heart was thumping in his throat, pounding knocks on a door and shouting for him to answer his call. 

Fuck, he had to do something about this stupid crush soon. Eric quietly picked up the Bard’s half eaten bowl (why wouldn’t he finish a meal? That was another question) and set both the Bard’s and his finished dishware by the sink. “Works for me,” he tried to keep his voice from cracking. 

The Child picked up his bowl, fully empty, and took it to the sink after Eric. And then he shot the two adults finger guns, grinning all the same as well. “Does that mean we can do another movie night?” he asked. 

“Another?” the Bard asked, turning back to Eric with a small smile. 

He was SUCH a nice person. Eric chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck, face turning red, and the Bard just watched. It wasn’t like he didn’t want to spend every waking moment with Eric. He just….he knew he could be a lot to handle. He was all of Roman’s overdramaticness balled into one hyperactive beauty queen. And if he was too annoying, or if Eric got tired of his antics, then they’d kick him out. And the Bard couldn’t stand that. 

It was a lot easier to handle leaving himself than the very thought of Eric kicking him out. The Bard wouldn’t be able to stomach that. Not when he loved Eric so much. 

God, he was so taken by that man. He leaned his back against the counter, crossing his arms in such a way that showed off both the branding scar of his part of Roman’s crest and also his crisp biceps. Eric even made the scars look good. Like, who does that? The Bard was both jealous and infatuated.

“We had a movie night when the Child first got here,” Eric explained, unaware of what the Bard’s wistful staring actually meant. 

“It’s a celebration!” the Child shouted, and he grabbed the Bard’s arm, hugging him tight enough to bring him out of his thoughts, “It’ll be like a big sleep over! We can watch Beauty and the Beast this time!”

The Bard giggled, lifting the Child up as he climbed out of his stool as well. Fuck, the Child had gotten heavier—he was about the size of a toddler last they saw him, but now he was definitely a preteen. Definitely preteen Thomas size. The Bard set him down fast, but not until after a little twirl. 

“That movie choice sounds fantastic, Boy Wonder,” he said, patting the Child’s head, “But first, we should help the—Eric with the dishes.”

The Child blinked. They were all still getting used to Eric’s name, of course. And then the Child broke out into the widest, warmest grin that the Bard had ever seen. 

“Sounds good!” he said, and they got to work cleaning the dishes.

It was fun, the Bard singing, Eric humming along, the Child laughing when he accidentally splashed them with water. In fact, the time flew right past.

The storm continued to rage. They were just about done with the dishes, though, when a different kind of howl sounded. Like a lion, rattling the pots and pans that they’d just set on the drying rack, chilling the bones of all the tree’s inhabitants. It was loud enough to make the Bard yelp, nearly jumping out of his own skin. 

“What the fuck—are there lions or something out there?” he asked. 

Eric’s face dropped near immediately. Of course the creatures would get out tonight, of all nights. He wiped his hands on the kitchen towel quick before hurrying to his work bench. There was a chest, a table with some tools on it. The Child stepped back, too, and held a hand out for the Bard. It was like he was preparing for in case the Bard wanted to hold his hand, which he would never do. It wasn’t like he was scared or anything.

There was another howl, louder, and the Bard gripped the Child’s hand for all he was worth. 

“It’s another one of Remus’, I’ll bet,” the Child called out to Eric. 

It sounded like a standard procedure to him and Eric, who was strapping a holster of throwing knives to his thigh. He picked up a sword, twirling it once before sliding it into the sheath nestled in his waistband.

“Yeah,” Eric grunted, pulling on his cloak and fastening his thick brooches, “I’ll turn it back around. You two go on upstairs. If Bard’s willing to stay another night, we can do movie night tomorrow?”

Even now, his voice was hopeful. The Bard nodded, albeit a little jerkily. Things had gotten very real really fast. “Uh. Yeah. I’d be happy to.”

Eric smiled at him, and then he slowly trudged down the entrance stairs. The tree door slammed shut, indicating he was gone. 

And then it was the Bard, the Child, and the wind. The Bard’s grip on the Child’s hand tightened, just a little, before he let go. 

Alright, now, he’s the adult. Time to figure out what to do with the Child, who was definitely less freaked out by the whole Remus’ monster outside situation. “Do you wanna go upstairs?” he asked. 

The Child bobbed his head in a nod. “Sure. I’ll get ready for bed.”

That notion was punctuated by a long yawn, and the Child stretched his arms up, jumping once, twice, before it was over. He let go of the Bard, watching the windows for a second as another howl sounded. It was slightly further away, though, and followed up with a softer yell. Like a human. Eric must be wrangling it. “He shouldn’t take too long, he’s really good at this,” the Child added. “He’s a badass.”

“Language,” the Bard murmured, and he had to stop himself from adding ‘Oh, I’ll bet.’ What he wouldn’t give to see Eric coated in a slight bit of sweat after kicking some monster’s ass, long hair mussed up and framing his face like a painting. 

Holy fuck, was he gay. 

The Child didn’t seem to have time for his musings, though, because he pulled the Bard up the stairs by the sleeve of his shirt, humming random notes in a random tune that he barely remembered. He knew it was a song they’d heard some time. While he took off his shirt and grabbed his pajamas, the Bard began to hum, too. 

He should be preparing the kid for sleep, though, so the Bard began to hum Jack Johnson’s “Lullaby.” The Child picked up the tune after him and slowly took off his jacket. It’d be good to help the kid to sleep. The Bard suspected he wasn’t actually that tired. I mean, it would have been a quick turn around if he was. But getting him to sleep and in bed by the time Eric got back would definitely take a load off of the man, so the Bard cleared his throat and summoned his ukulele, the one thing he could always reliably conjure. While the Child finished changing, the Bard sat down on the bed’s edge, strummed a few chords and began to actually sing. 

“Everyone’s sleeping, all through the house,” the Bard sang softly, voice barely carrying, yet the Child couldn’t not hear him.“You wish you could dream but forgot to somehow, sing this lullaby to yourself.”

The Child jumped into bed, adding on the second lyric and singing along with the Bard. “Sing this lullaby to yourself.”

Oop. The Bard grinned cheekily at him, pulling the blankets up around the Child and hugging him tight with them, tucking him in as he did. The Child laughed, letting himself be swaddled, if only while he laid against the Bard’s side. He rested the ukulele against his chest, trying to leave room for the Child to snuggle against him as they both laid in wait. 

It was so warm, nice, comfortable. “And if you are waiting, waititng for me,” the Bard riffed lightly on the word “me,” “I’ll be home soon darling, I guarantee. I’ll be home Sunday, just in one week.”

The Child snuggled into the blankets, giggling as the Bard leaned down over him. He cupped the Child’s cheek, humming when he wasn’t singing, slowing the tune immensely as he leaned in. “Dry up your tears if you start to weep,” the Bard pecked the Child’s forehead, garnering even more giggles from the boy.

“You’re a good singer,” the Child murmured, curling up into a blanketed ball against the Bard’s hip.

“And sing this lullaby to yourself,” the Bard sighed, watching the Child rest, “Sing this lullaby to yourself.”

He put a hand on the Child’s back, rubbing slow up and down, soothing him into a slumber while his voice did the rest. The Bard’s lullaby bounced around the room, echoing warmly. “Lullaby, oh, lullaby,” the Bard sung, “Sing this lullaby to yourself.”

The sound seemed to buzz into the Child’s head. He was so comfortable already but the song itself, the sounds and the words, they seemed to tug his mind down. Down, down, further away from a place where he could hear the Bard and feel the bed. 

He was slipping into sleep so much faster than usual, the Bard’s magic pushing him into a sleep. But the Child didn’t mind so much, once he noticed. He wasn’t actually tired until the Bard started singing, after all. 

“Cause when I arrive dear, it won’t be that long,” the Bard sung, “No, it won’t seem like any time that I’ve been gone.”

The Bard watched the Child snuggle further against his side, almost fully out. He wished he were some kind of parental figure. Taking care of the Child was always a delight, part of coming to Eric’s home that he enjoyed to the utmost. The Child was just such a ball of positivity and the Bard could tell that he was a good influence on himself. 

He should come by more often. Staying one night seemed like a good compromise. 

“It ain’t the first time, it won’t be the last. So won’t you remember these words to help the time pass?” 

Outside, the winds howled still. The storm continued to rage. 

Dimly, the Bard hoped Eric was okay. If he were injured, the Bard would be able to help. 

The more he thought about it, the more the Bard prefered Eric and the Child’s company, the more welcoming the entire tree seemed to be. Perhaps he should stay. But, god, he didn’t want to be more of a burden than he already was on Roman and the others. What was he good for, if not for singing?

Before he picked up the next verse, though, the Bard was interrupted.

“He’s right. Your voice’s got a nice cadence to it,” the Bard turned around to see Eric in the stairwell, sword bloodied in his hand while his other gripped his waist tight. 

“Oh, no.” The Bard ushered Eric to another seat, the small couch he kept in the upstairs area. He put his ukulele down on the desk beside the couch so he could help Eric down. “Was it one of the monsters you were talking about?”

Eric chuckled. He laid down slowly and moved his hand when the Bard ushered it. There were three gashes, large but not very deep, like an animals claw mark. “Yep. Guess-Guess you believe me now,” he said, and then he winced as the Bard rolled his shirt up more. 

“This looks pretty deep. It’s not poisoned though, that’s good,” he sighed, and then cleared his throat, “I can heal it.”

Oh. Yeah. The Bard had healing powers. Eric fully forgot about that. In his defense, the Bard barely used them, since he was so much more fond of singing for pleasure. It was easy to forget someone could do something if they rarely did it. 

But then the Bard began to sing, no words, simple tunes. It was soft, light hearted. Eric felt himself loosening, like a weight had been taken off his shoulders, muscles unclenching as the sound filtered through his head. A ways to the side, they both could hear the Child sigh in his sleep, content. Eric could even feel the wound stitching itself together. It was so soothing. So nice. He closed his eyes, just to rest a little in the Bard’s magic.

In no time at all, the once bloodied cuts had healed into three thick scars. Wounds that deep would definitely scar but, given how well populated Eric was by marks, it wasn’t unwarranted. The Bard ran his hand along the trails as he sang out the final notes, and Eric put a hand on the Bard’s.

It really was a nice….Cadence. 

“That’d be a nice name,” Eric said, watching the Bard with half-lidded eyes.

The Bard tilted his head. “What would be?”

Eric grinned at him. “Cadence.”

Oh. The Bard bobbed his head to either side, thinking, but he wasn’t given much time to. Eric patted his arm and slowly pulled himself up, wobbling on his legs. Maybe the healing made him tired, too. So sue him. 

“C’mon, sleep. You can think more about that tomorrow,” he said, tugging the Bard along. 

The Bard didn’t have a name. He hadn’t really been planning for one. But “Cadence” rolled off the tongue so well. And it had a nice lilt to it. 

Eric pulled him onto the bed, more than half asleep as he wrapped his arms around Cadence’s waist. At least this was a place he was comfortable in. Maybe, Cadence thought, snuggling more into Eric’s hold, maybe it was a place he’d be willing to call home.


	5. Marlowe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: illness/descriptions of illness, yelling, self depreciation, cursing, self-hatred, arguing, Marlowe's like, super pissed dudes, I'm sorry
> 
> if i missed any, please let me know!!!

David tied off his sweater around his waist and took a deep breath. His meetings with Roman were getting fewer and farther between, for no reason other than the prince’s health. He wasn’t getting better. The Playwright was so sure that he knew the answers but, well, David couldn’t help but worry.

He untied his hair and strung his hands through it, trying to loosen his stress when the Playwright’s hand came down on his shoulder. 

“Are you ready to go?” he asked.

David nodded. Smiled. “Of course. You sure you wanna come with me?”

It was open fact between the two of them that the Playwright wasn’t exactly fond of Roman, especially with how he’d been treating David. He wrapped his arm more around David’s shoulders, hugging him really quick before he offered up a hand. “Roman needs to give you more breathing room and, if my hypothesis is correct, he needs others to lean on,” the Playwright said.

He just wanted to do his duty, too, as one of Roman’s sides. As an advisor. David had to give him credit there.

He just hoped that Roman would accept that. David nodded wordlessly and took the Playwright’s hand. Before sinking them out, the Playwright kissed the back of his hand. “It’ll be okay,” he promised, and then they sank out of David’s studio. 

The castle was as beautiful and large as it always was. The Playwright gripped David’s hand, letting him pull him along the halls, up a spiral staircase. David had said Roman didn’t like being surprised by them, which the Playwright had accepted quietly. He didn’t see what so much of a problem was, though, given how the Sides did that to Thomas constantly. 

David stopped outside of a door, at the end of the hallway decorated with paintings of nature. His paintings. Were they his or were they Roman’s? David couldn’t really remember, and he couldn’t tell the difference. 

Roman was...different. He’d been through a lot, of course, and it hurt to see him so upset. Because while David did kind of sort of hate Roman, hated how much he made him work, he did understand that this wasn’t  _ Roman _ , that this was something that he was doing because of some other internal things. David didn’t know what, didn’t know why, but he knew Roman needed help in some way shape or form. That’s what the Playwright had guessed, too. 

He just didn’t want Roman to hurt the Playwright. David squeezed his hand a little tighter. “Are you sure,” he asked again.

The Playwright, just a bit behind him, chuckled. He fixed his glasses once more. “Well, what could Roman do to me?”

David shrugged. “He could turn you back into creation,” he said.

What a fear. The Playwright shook his head. It was truly plausible, but Roman would never get rid of him in such a way, nor would he get rid of any of them like that. He needed them. “I think I’ll be fine,” the Playwright promised, “Roman won’t hurt me.”

And to that, David can only hope, as usual. He stares at the door he’s stopped at, Roman’s current bedroom, and he still can’t bring his feet to move. 

It’s more silent than usual. The Dragon was usually moving, stomping around, walking around, probably breaking something. David was sure he’d heard the Dragon break a vase once. 

“The Dragon’s really quiet today,” he said offhandedly.

He was definitely stalling. The Playwright looks down, notes the silence. Well, there are soft footsteps. Like a regular person walking. 

“Maybe he’s not here,” The Playwright suggested, but David shook his head.

“Nowhere else he would be. He’s probably trying to be quiet, maybe he’s doing something—”

“David, open the fucking door,” the Playwright said.

Fuck. David shot the Playwright a slight glare and pushed the doors open.

And there he was. Roman’s bedroom was exactly how the Playwright had expected it to be—lavish, clustered, but somehow still organized. He was laid in a four poster bed, tucked in with six pillows around him, snuggled slightly to the side. His brown hair was matted against his face, which was much more pale than the Playwright remembered. Maybe Roman was ill? That might mean different things, considering how sicknesses affected Sides, but he could also be tired from his escapades. Surely being split into multiple smaller sides wasn’t conducive to a healthy work environment.

When Roman noticed David, he sat up a little more. He offered a small smile, which David returned. Happy to see his creator, probably. From what the Playwright knew, Roman didn’t consider David anything else.

And then he noticed the Playwright right beside him, and Roman’s countenance dropped. “Who’s that?” he asked

The Playwright wanted to make a good impression, of course. This was his Host. He stepped forward, close enough to the bed to touch, and held out a hand. “It’s my pleasure to finally meet you, Roman. I am the Playwright,” he said, voice crystal clear. 

Roman looked at his hand, then up at the Playwright, expression unreadable. From here, the Playwright could see the dark circles that were engraved into the space beneath his eyes. 

He turned away from the Playwright, blatantly ignoring him as he faced David, who flinched at the eye contact. 

“Is he another one of you?” 

David swallowed. He hated this attention. David wasn’t used to it, didn’t like it. He wanted his art to be spotlit. Not himself. “Uh, yeah.”

Roman groaned, and they both fought back flinches. “God, how many of you are there?”

“That doesn’t matter,” the Playwright said, putting a hand up, “David brought me here on my request. I want to talk to you.”

Roman still didn’t grace him with acknowledgement. “So you’re taking orders from him, now, Artist?”

“It was a request,” hearing Roman use David’s title ground the Playwright’s gears, but he refrained from calling him out too harshly. “Frankly, sir, you look like shit. Where are the other Sides? Why are you in the Imagination alone? Aren’t they worried enough from the last time you were here for so long?”

The insults and prodding got Roman’s attention near immediately and the Playwright got his first break. Roman winced, and looked down at his hands. “I made them follow me into here on some...stupid suicide mission. If I can’t bother them now with this. They deserve to relax.”

“Do they know how unwell you are? Considering how well terms you left, I presume you are in relation with all of them,” the Playwright explained, pressed, “You need to be upfront with them about this, especially because of what you’ve recently endured.”

Roman glared up at him. Perhaps the Playwright had said too much. Roman was definitely not keen on listening further but the Playwright wanted…..him to be better. It hurt. It hurt so much to see his Host like this.

He approaches again, slowly lifting his hands. He wanted to help. He was angry with Roman, of course, but first and foremost he wanted what was best for him. 

“I’m at your service, Roman. I don’t mean you any harm,” he said.

Roman scoffed, but it was softer. Like he almost wanted to believe it. Did Roman truly think the Playwright would hurt him?

Before he could ask, Roman continued, voice lacking its earlier bite. “Why would I need your help? You’re not even a part of me anymore, you don’t know what I’m thinking.”

Fair questions. The Playwright rubbed his hands together and stepped closer again, nearing the edge of the bed. He was only about one or two more strides away. “While that may be true, David, I, and the others—”

“Hang on,” Roman said, voice flat. “David.”

“That’s his name,” the Playwright said, trying to keep his voice level with a fair amount of confusion. He shouldn’t be starting arguments so soon, but it was hard to hold back. Of course, he knew what was happening. He wasn’t stupid. Fuck what he said earlier, the Playwright was going for the jugular on this topic. How dare Roman—

“Don’t you mean the Artist?” Roman asked.

HOW DARE HE. The Playwright held up a finger, scowling even deeper. He could see David in his peripheral, waving his hands, trying to deter him from continuing, but it was his prerogative to make sure Roman respected his partner. 

Didn’t Roman understand that he couldn’t annoy them away? He was stuck with them, with all of them! Being a dickhead wouldn’t make any of them disappear again so why the fuck was Roman trying so hard? God!

“That is his title,” the Playwright cleared his throat, trying to get the anger out of his system before he started swearing at his Host, “His name, however, is David. You are not creativity, you are Roman. He is David. We need baseline respect for us to function,” these seemed like obvious things.

Roman frowned a little deeper. The Playwright, not wanting to jump forward to strangle him, put his hands behind his back and smiled a tiny bit. Placid. Calm. David was the hot-tempered one. The Playwright couldn’t afford such eccentricities. Not when he had to be the level-headed member of their group. Besides, he had to maintain his posture in order to convince Roman that he was correct.

The stare-off ended when Roman rolled his eyes, but his slouching further into the large bed indicated to the Playwright that he could continue. 

He took a deep breath and took a few steps to the side, the beginning of a solid pace, he could tell. “We all provide valuable insights into the different parts of your decision-making process and your mental state. Perhaps we aren’t directly connected to your mind now, but we once were, and we are likely close enough that it can provide some sort of insight into your decisions and psyche. We are also an accurate metric of your values. The most accurate way to achieve full productivity is to confer with all of us.”

That was the summation of his argument, at least. Roman looked just as bored as he had at the beginning of this talk. Maybe even moreso. 

“The Artist is productive enough,” Roman said, “Now—”

David scooted closer to the Playwright. He didn’t like Roman’s expression. Slowly, his arm looped around the Playwright’s, and he hid a tad behind him. 

It could have been something in the Playwright’s expression. In truth, he was blinded by anger once again. Of course calling David by his title was a slap enough, but how could Roman….’productive enough?’ What the fuck did that even mean? Didn’t Roman understand the lengths David was going to—he was DESTROYING HIMSELF to maintain Roman’s productivity cycle, Roman was destroying himself by making David work so hard, by making himself work so hard, to what ends was this all for? 

“David doesn’t sleep,” the Playwright started. 

David stiffened. Roman raised his eyebrows. David didn’t tell him he, like, needed sleep. But that wasn’t where the Playwright ended. 

“David doesn’t eat. He doesn’t take care of himself, hasn’t taken care of himself once since we all were recreated a month ago. I have to force him to sleep every two days, I have to remind him to consume food at least once a day. Once, I had to remind him to breathe, because that’s something that he has to do with the form he’s been given,” the words continued to tumble out, the Playwright stopping his pacing right by Roman’s bed, fists clenched at his sides, body trembling in anger, “David hasn’t even had the fucking time to learn how to fucking take care of himself because of how much fucking work you give him.”

Roman winced at that. He looked away from them both, up at the ceiling of his canopy bed. “And why would I ever listen to you?”

“Because I am your rational thought. I am your logic,” the Playwright snarled, ignoring how Roman seemed to flinch even further into his bed at the aggressive sounds, “But then again, it’s too much to ask Creativity to listen to reason, you ill-tempered coxcomb. When have you  _ ever? _ ”

“I don’t need logic,” Roman raised his voice at that. He lifted a finger, sat up straight a little more, “I just need someone who can create. It’s my own Cute-Angle’s job to handle the rationality in Thomas’ decisions.”

The Playwright wrung his hands. “Even your nicknames are lacking because of the creative drought you’ve thrown yourself into!” he spat. 

This was getting out of hand, the Playwright could tell. He could see it in the way Roman recoiled from him. Slowly, intentionally, he leaned back. The Playwright had made his way right up to the edge of Roman’s bed without even realizing it. David was probably trying to pull him back earlier. Good lord.

He took a deep breath once again and crossed his arms. “Funnily enough, Prince Roman,” he spat the title with as much disdain as he carried, “I also do that. I also create. I advise you on both your rational thinking and in creative endeavors.” 

Roman didn’t answer that one. He didn’t even react much, just closed his eyes. Perhaps he was thinking, David thought. The Playwright did kind of call him out in full. And he wasn’t done.

“What is our purpose, why are we still here, if not to help you? Typically, it’s a comfort to the wretched to have companions in misery, isn’t it?” The Playwright squeezed his own elbows his hands, “Why am I creating things, the same as David, when you don’t want me to be? Why are any of us here if you don’t need us?”

David’s hand squeezed the Playwright’s shoulder. When the Playwright didn’t move, David scooted closer, wrapping his arms around his midriff. The Playwright’s body was stiffer than a board as he glared down at Roman, who was still simply laying there, eyes closed. 

It was good. Probably wasn’t the best that the Playwright had straight up yelled at him, but it meant something that Roman was listening to him. 

“Darl’,” he whispered into the Playwright’s ear, “It’s okay. Deep breaths.”

He was getting quite worked up. The Playwright exhaled, leaning back into David’s embrace and carefully untangling his own arms so he could accommodate for David’s. He felt David rub his chest, trying to soothe him. 

Roman kept his eyes closed even after the Playwright relaxed. The both of them waited with baited breath, counting the seconds in worry. They were likely the only source that Roman had on any of the newly-formed advisors. The Playwright hoped he didn’t ruin everything with his temper. The more he thought, though, the worse the worries grew. 

It felt like ages after his outburst when Roman raised his hand. 

“Fine,” he said.

The tension immediately lifted from the Playwright’s shoulders. Before he could say anything, though, Roman continued. 

“I want you to gather everyone. And then we’ll talk,” Roman said, “Once. I just need to meet them all.”

That was….doable. The Playwright, if anyone would be able to find all of their group.

“Alright,” the Playwright said, leaning back slowly, “Okay. I can achieve that. When would you like for us to meet?”

Roman sighed before answering once again. “How about Friday of next week. You’ll have about two weeks to rally the entourage.”

That was incredibly achievable. The Playwright nodded. 

“Of course,” he stepped back and then looped his arm around David’s.

David had grown quiet, but when the Playwright touched him, he jumped. He blinked a few times, looking up at the Playwright as he did. It had been a long day, with a lot for him to think about. The Playwright squeezed his arm before turning back to Roman one final time. “I hope you feel better soon,” he said.

Roman didn’t look up at him. At this distance, it looked like he had snuggled back into the bed, back into the plethora of blankets and pillows he’d surrounded himself with. 

It was likely a bad idea to yell so harshly at him. The Playwright was surprised, the more he thought, because he had never considered himself the aggressive type. Maybe he was a pacifist, but well….okay, he had gotten in a number of yelling matches with David. But this was different. He’d thought it was just David who could draw out the never-ending strings of coiled tension in his chest. Maybe it wasn’t a David issue. Maybe it was a him issue. 

David sank them out this time, holding the Playwright’s arm tight, and he immediately flopped onto the bed in his living room once they returned. The Playwright followed suit, laying back onto the bed and reaching an arm out. He wrapped it around David’s shoulders while his partner rolled back into his chest, knocking his head against his shoulder. 

They were silent for a moment. 

Many thoughts were racing, of course. David was shocked. He hadn’t thought the Playwright would yell at Roman. He honestly didn’t think the Playwright was capable of that kind of reaction. But it might have been what Roman needed. He’d been laying in that bed for days. Apparently he told the other Sides he needed to rest and think. David didn’t know what the time comparison was, between the Mind Palace and the Imagination, but he figured Roman slowed it down tremendously to give himself as much time as possible to think. There was no way in fuck that the others would let him hide in the Imagination for this long, anyway. 

Roman had really thought about what the Playwright was saying. Maybe he was a little too lost in thought to notice, but David had stood there silently the whole time, just watching Roman’s posture. He was guilty. He had felt and seemed guilty about how he’d treated David. And he actually thought about what the Playwright had said, when they were leaving. 

“That went well,” the Playwright said, taking his glasses off.

David snorted. The Playwright’s sarcasm was thick, but in all fairness, David actually did think things were achieved. “I mean, he might hate us, but you did a real good job of laying things out.”

The Playwright turned to him with a withering stare. “Thanks,” he said, and neither of them could hold back a thin smile, “It was hard to get things through a skull so thick.”

“Nah, you were real good. I feel like he’s actually mulling things over,” David rubbed his hair, gently twirling some of the curly bunches around. 

The Playwright shrugged, quiet and noncommittal, so David gently nudged his shoulder. 

“I dunno if quoting Doctor Faustus helped, though. I don’t think the bastard’s ever read it,” he joked.

The Playwright snickered. “No, no, I know he has. I mean, I remember him having read it.”

He looked up at David again, a smaller smile on his face, and he was about to thank him for the attempt at humor. But David’s eyes had gone glassy. He starred at the wall across the Playwright, brow furrowed. “Faustus? Faust? No. That sounds kinda weird,” he said.

“What on Earth are you talking about?”

That was the look David had whenever he was struck with an idea. The Playwright held his shoulders, gently coaxed him to lay down again, and now David was staring him straight in the face with the exact same levels of intensity.

“Chris? The playwright, Christopher Marlowe. Christopher?” David clicked his tongue. “No.”

“What are you—”

“Faustus. Mephistopholes? Topholes?”

“David, what,” the Playwright giggled at that one, “That’s not even a word. What are you talking about?”

He reached up, brushing David’s hair back, and David’s hand idly grabbed his. He was really thinking here, wasn’t he? Maybe it was a break from the creative block. The Playwright had a hunch about what David was thinking of, but he didn’t want to interrupt. He kind of liked where the train of thought was going, too. 

“Back to the playwright,” David gently bopped his nose against the Playwright’s as he said his title, “What about Marlowe? Marlowe.”

He said the name with such reverence. And then he grinned. “Marlowe,” he repeated, “Marl’. Marl’, my darl’.”

The Playwright giggled again. David pulled him forward and kissed his forehead. “Hey, hey, stop that,” David chided him.

“I’m sorry, I’m-you’re cute when you think,” the Playwright smiled warmly at him, “Marlowe.”

David nodded. “Marlowe.”

Both of their faces were pink. The Playwright pulled his hand back toward his chest, taking David’s hand with him. “Marlowe,” David said again, “Yeah.”

“Do you mean me?” the Playwright asked.

David nodded, blinking the last of the creative stupor out of his face. Recognition of what he was proposing flooded his mind—he’d just picked the Playwright’s entire name—and David with hid his face in the Playwright’s side, snuggling up against him quickly. “Shit. Shit, sorry, Play Place, I didn’t mean to just-I know names’re important, I just-the idea came and I couldn’t just—”

“Marlowe,” the Playwright said again.

He ran his hand through David’s hair and pulled him closer to his chest. “I do like that name. Marlowe,” Marlowe smiled a little, “It’s quite nice.”

“You do?” David tilted his head up, now looking across Marlowe’s chest at him, “Really?”

“Of course. It’s a lovely gift, my Starry Night,” Marlowe leaned forward and pecked his forehead, “I’ll use it to introduce myself to the others. Maybe the Dragon’ll enjoy that.”

David chuckled. Right. Marlowe had to go do that thing now. Roman had given him a job. Man, being useful was fun.

“Damn gay he will,” David patted Marlowe’s chest, “When’re you leaving?”

“Probably tomorrow morning. I can….” Marlowe closed his eyes, one hand holding David’s, the other running through David’s hair as he hummed in thought.

Marlowe was the least corporeal of all the advisors, tied firmly to the Imagination as an entity. That had its plusses and minuses, as does everything, and one strict plus was his ability to know things. He knew the Thief was in his tree with the Bard and the Child. He knew there were many entities in the castle, likely including the Dragon. He couldn’t figure out where the Damsel was (and that was why it hurt so bad that he couldn’t find him) though he did sense someone far out into the depths of the forest. Hm. He would have to figure out what that was about. Perhaps that was the Damsel?

If he wasn’t dead. By this point, the Damsel would have been out in the forest for over a full month. Surely he wouldn’t have survived that. Would he?

“I think I know where to start,” Marlowe said. 

David nodded against his chest. “Sounds good, Marl’ darl’.”

Marlowe snorted. “Is that my nickname now?” he asked, cradling David’s head. 

It seemed that his partner was falling asleep already. His entire circadian rhythm was so, as the kids say, wack, that Marlowe was willing to simply morph into his pajamas and let David rest, even though it was about 3 in the afternoon. The man needed everything he could get. 

“Marlowe my darling,” David’s voice was slurred against his chest, “Marlowe my darlowe.”

“Alright, alright. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Marling my darling.”

“You stop that.”


	6. Phillip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: mention of past violence, swords, panic, incredible flirting — there's not much but if you find anything i forgot, please let me know!!
> 
> me @ also me: why are you shipping all of them  
> also me @ me: roman is in charge of thomas' romance don't tell me he wouldn't immediately fall in love with himself  
> me: you're so fucking right
> 
> anyway.,,.,.,.,.,,.,,..,,...,,.,. ,. .,. ., ,.. . .,, ,.. . ., welcome back! a lot changed in may LMAO but we're nearing the end of this one and uwu i hope you enjoy

It took about two weeks of visitations and discussion — Marlowe was astounded and pleased to see the Damsel alive — but he finally did it. It was a cockamamie plan from the beginning, the Damsel had told him, but it had to be done. That’s what the Damsel said, and that’s what the Bard said, and that’s what David told him every night. 

The details were crystal clear. They were to meet at approximately noon, at the Thief’s tree. Eric’s tree. They didn’t know about the name. No one knew about each other’s names. It was only an assumption, on the Playwright’s part, on Marlowe’s part, that they had names. The Damsel only knew Draco. Marlowe and David knew each other. Eric and Cadence knew each other, and the Child knew about both as well. 

The Damsel could walk again, albeit with a limp enough to warrant holding Draco’s arm. His arm was occasionally sore but was otherwise healed better, to his own surprise. It had been longer than a month since Draco had found him in the woods and it was certainly a time for him, laid up in bed.

Draco was careful with him. He was honestly quite charming, very cautious around the Damsel. The Damsel had accidentally taken Draco’s bed, given the whole rest and rejuvenation situation, but the Damsel was small enough that an acceptable solution was for them to simply share a bed. Just so they wouldn’t take up too many rooms in the castle. 

Of course, it was also a comfort to sleep beside Draco, his wings wrapped around the Damsel in an almost protective manner. The Damsel couldn’t really make heads or tails of why he would do that, but he didn’t feel any pressure to ask. Maybe it was instinctual? Either way, it was incredibly nice. 

He was, as the days went on, much more worried about the inevitable reconvening. Did the others have names? Did the others remember what he did? And how? The last thing that the Damsel had tried to do was kill all of them. Of course, he failed, the child beat him, there were many changes since, but it was still incredibly awkward to be faced with these people whom he had recently tried to massacre.

If this meeting, this truce, was to be successful, then it was likely that they would share intimate details about each other. What would they want of the Damsel? What was he willing to give? He didn’t really want to talk about much. He couldn’t even talk about why he’d thought the whole plan of “let’s just kill everyone” was something he undertook. Not that he wouldn’t (though he probably wouldn’t, if he was being honest with himself) but he couldn’t figure out why he’d done it. It had felt right. But there had been so much that’d happened recently that made him fall back on his considerations. What was he? Why was he the Damsel? Why couldn’t he be the Prince? Could he be both? Why had he acted in such a way? Why did the others forgive him, and why didn’t that sit well with him?

Draco thought it would be fine. He didn’t have much he thought he had to hide, though, and the Damsel had to agree. Draco had a fairly strong excuse; the Damsel didn’t. 

“It’s going to be okay,” Draco reassured him on the day of their meeting. 

The Damsel was pulling on his clothing, slow and steady, sitting on the foot of their bed. After Draco had helped him move in, he’d checked the closet and found clothing he didn’t recognize and in a size smaller than his — they both assumed, correctly, that it was meant for the Damsel. It was quite nice. He liked the cape. He didn’t know what he did to deserve this. 

“Are you sure,” the Damsel knew it didn’t make sense to keep asking, but there was no way that they didn’t hold a grudge. It was so easy to, after all; even the Damsel held a grudge against himself for being so foolish and plain stupid to have tried killing them all, the others must hate him similarly. The Playwright was just being his own impenetrably professional self when he’d visited with an invitation to a meeting. 

Draco shrugged. He was standing by the open balcony, leaning against the wall, tail shifted away while his wings were still there, necessary to take them both to the Tree. Flying was pretty fun, he’d found, and he kinda liked it. “If they do anything weird, then I’ll fight them,” he says. 

If only the solution were that simple. They’d had this exact same conversation about five times, though, so the Damsel just sighed. No use arguing with a boulder. 

He finished lacing his shoes and stood, holding out his hand. Draco took it, pulled him closer, and then looped his arms around the Damsel’s legs. God, Draco could pick him up like he’s a fucking pillow. The Damsel just wrapped his arms around Draco’s neck, holding on tight as he jumped out the balcony window. 

At the Tree, Eric was restless. There was company coming over. Cadence visiting over was one thing, but now it was everyone and they’d all see how fucking disasterous he lived. Of course, he didn’t actually live that messily. The worst thing was his weaponry. His workbench and table were covered in half-finished blades, sharpening block with a few throwing knives still sitting beside it. The Child knew he wasn’t allowed near there and he was good enough at following those rules that Eric didn’t feel like he had to clean it up every day. That definitely lead to him just not cleaning enough, though. 

He’d cleaned that last night. Well, early this morning. He’d only slept, like, two hours. Why sleep when he had to panic and clean? 

“It’s going to be okay,” Cadence said, rounding into the kitchen with Eric, a few plates stacked in his hand. 

He’d cleaned up the bedroom area. The Child was helping, making the bed impeccably. When Eric was nervous, it was best to help in any way they could, even if they were both fairly certain that no one would be going into the bedroom. 

“Are you sure?” Eric asked. 

He’d finished with the workbench at around 3 a.m. and he’d moved to rearrange the living room. Now, he was cooking food. What if the others needed to eat? He knew the Artist and the Playwright didn't need to, but what about the Dragon? And the Damsel? 

The Child might eat the potato skins. It’ll give him something to eat so Eric wouldn’t have to prepare food during the meeting. He didn’t want to be awkward like that. He carefully slid them all onto a plate and organized them so they looked presentable. Better than nothing. 

“I know it’ll be okay,” Cadence kissed the top of his head, “They should be here at any minute.”

The Child jumped down the stairs one by one. His outfit is so cool; stepping this hard made his sneakers light up and that’s so cool. They blinked red and gold. “Upstairs is clean!” he said.

Good. Good, good, good. Eric handed him the bowl of skins. “Can you put that on the coffee table?”

“Yessir!” the Child put the bowl down on the coffee table and then sat himself on the ground, crossing his legs, “Do you think Artist and Playwright are gonna be first? Or Damsel and Dragon?”

Jeez. “I don’t know,” Eric hissed, when there was a knock on the door. 

Show time. Eric ran his hands through his hair and leaned forward over the counter, trying to steady his breathing. It was alright. No biggie. He could handle these fuckers. He’d already swordfought like, two of them, and he kicked their asses! Well, he actually only had a fifty-fifty win ratio, but Eric liked to think that stealing from the Dragon every few days made up for that time he got absolutely fucked over by multitasking, but wasn’t this weird meeting at his house just one big multitasking show. Slow down. Eric took a deep breath. He was. Okay. 

Cadence rubbed his shoulder as he went to the door. What a formality, to knock, as he opened the door to the Artist and the Playwright. “Hey! How are you?” Cadence said, stepping back, “Come on in!”

“Hello, Bard,” Marlowesaid with a smile, “It’s nice to see you again. And with a roof over your head still.”

“Yeah, I’m surprised! I’d’ve thought Thief here would get tired of all my singing,” the Bard went back to the kitchen, wrapping his arms around the Thief’s waist. 

Cute. They would make a cute couple. Marlowe nodded along and helped David to the second couch — not the one with the Child, who the Artist was pointedly ignoring. It didn’t seem like the kid noticed, though, because he still waved excitedly at them. “Hi Artist! Hi Playwright! It’s so good to see you again!”

David pulled his knees up to his chest. He was the jackass who couldn’t take care of the Child, so the most he does is wave. He’s not super...thrilled with himself. Like, he almost killed the Child. Could he have killed him? Marlowe said they couldn’t die, but it kinda felt like he was killing the poor kid. Either way, he was a shit guardian and he’s fully fucking aware of it. 

“Do you want any food?” the Thief asked, still in the kitchen, “I, uh, made potato skins.”

Oh? Marlowe smiled and waved his hand politely. “No, I’m okay, but the Artist should eat.”

He shot David a pointed look, to which David just rolled his eyes and took a skin. He quietly chewed on it, eating slow and quiet while avoiding the surprised look from the Child. At least the kid didn’t say anything. 

To save them from the reality of any actual awkward silences, there was a knock on the door. The Bard answered it, to Draco and the Damsel, who was holding Draco’s arm tight. “Damsel! You’re okay!” the Bard said, leaning forward and pulling the Damsel into a hug. 

The Damsel stiffened, of course, but he tried to lightly pat the Bard’s back. His sympathy and excitement didn’t go unnoticed, though it was a shock to the Damsel that the Bard cared about his well-being. “Thank you, Bard,” he said, “I’m glad to….be back.”

The Bard laughed. “I’m glad to see you! It’s been so long and we were real worried, especially when we didn’t see you,” he motioned the Damsel up the stairs so he could hug Draco, “And you, Dragon! It’s been so long!”

“Hey, hey! Good t’ see you again, Sir Sing-a-Lot,” Draco laughed too, hugging the Bard tight.

He appreciated the Bard’s energy. It was surprising to see him so excited, though! It wasn’t like they were close earlier. None of them were close earlier, but the Playwright is giving him a small smile and the Artist, too, waved from a distance. Why were they so nonplussed about his appearance at this gathering? Draco set him down carefully and the Bard patted his arm while the Damsel stepped back. “Woof, someone’s been working out! And I love the scales, they really bring out your eyes,” he said with a grin, “Come on in!”

….Oh? Draco blushed a little, grinning with little awareness. He hadn’t had anyone other than the Damsel compliment his new features, and it was still kind of weird to hear his more monstrous additions be talked about in such a positive light. He thought the scales kinda made him look like Deceit. “Thank you!” he clapped his hands once, “I, uh, I really like your hair. It’s cute. And the lil’ heart, that’s cute, too.”

“Thanks!” 

The Bard hurried back up, closing the door and helping the Thief clean up in the kitchen. The Damsel had gone toward the couch, was talking quietly with the Playwright. Draco should probably help him sit, since the Damsel’s leg’s inability bend properly made it difficult for him to lower himself. 

He sat down quietly on the ground, tail wrapping around the Damsel’s waist and helping him sit in his lap. The Playwright watched quietly, a small smile on his face. They, too, were quite nice to each other. Plus, Draco had seen the Playwright earlier so he was more nonchalant with him. Maybe Draco had even, hypothetically, heard the Playwright chew Roman out from a few floors below. Maybe the Damsel heard it, too. The Artist was eating potato skins quietly and the Child, sitting on the ground at the far end of the coffee table, was watching the Damsel with a blank expression. His hands were picking at the fibers of his pants, though, as if he were thinking. Or maybe he was still scared of Draco.

Draco wouldn’t fault him for that, he is pretty scary. He smiled, waved a little, and the Child blinked. His eyes focused in on Draco and the Damsel and, once he seemed to assess who they were, he grinned. 

“Hi Damsel! Dragon!” he said, waving his own hand haphazardly, “How are you?”

“We’re doing-I’m-It’s-It’s going well,” the Damsel’s voice was much softer now, surrounded by basically strangers, “It’s good to see you-see you again, Child.”

The Child smiled at that. He was such a ball of sunshine. That likely wasn’t even metaphorical, the Damsel noted. “It’s good to see you too! I like your crown, it’s really pretty.”

The Damsel grinned, too, and bowed his head. He carefully removed the crown and held it out to the Child, who starred with eyes as wide as saucers. “Try it on?”

“No, no, it’s yours! You’re the prince!”

“Oh, I think I can stand to not wear it for a little,” the Damsel tilted his head. 

The Child looked at the crown and then, quick as a hare, snatched it out of the Damsel’s hands. He put it on his own head and tried to look up at himself, fooling around as the Thief and the Bard finally sat back down. It was a little lopsided, but, somehow, it fit with his image. Lovely.

“So,” the Thief motioned the Child to give the Damsel back his crown while the Bard sat down on the final armchair, kicking his legs over the armrest, “What’re we doing here?”

All eyes turned to the Playwright.. He was the one, after all, who gathered everyone here. He took a deep breath and sat up straight, surveying everyone slowly before beginning. “I’ll cut to the chase. First, introductions. I no longer address myself as the Playwright,” Marlowe motioned to his person, resting a hand on his own chest, “My name is Marlowe. It’s a pleasure to meet you all.”

Reactions were ranged. The Dragon’s wings flickered, tail tip thumping lightly against the Damsel’s leg in excitement, while the Damsel just raised his eyebrows. The Artist reached over, holding Marlowe’s hand gently. The Thief squinted a tiny bit, and the Bard clapped his hands, leaning his shoulder against the Thief’s arm. 

The Artist didn’t want Marlowe to be outing himself alone. They’d talked about this before hand and good thing that Marlowe was squeezing his hand tight. Names were, you know, a trope that typically symbolized trust. As mired as their background was with everyone, neither of them wanted to inspire distrust, and they both did honestly want to bring the group together the best as they could. So a show of trust. Was necessary. He raised a hand and shot everyone some finger guns. “Hey,” he said, “I go by David.”

“You have names too!” the Dragon’s tail unraveled from the Damsel’s waist, thumping against the ground now with increased ferocity now, “Oh my—I’m Draco!”

This was a turn. David clapped, giving Draco a pair of thumbs up, and Draco lifted his arms off of the Damsel to give two thumbs up as well. The Damsel, though, shook his head. “I don’t have a name,” he said quietly, “I haven’t-It hasn’t come up.”

That was fair. Marlowe nodded to him before turning to the Bard and the Thief, who were sharing a look. The Thief’s expression was guarded, though his eyes kept darting over to the Bard. His attention was taken over by Draco, though, who began explaining his own name. 

The Thief shrugged at the Bard ever so slightly. Eric didn’t trust the others with his name, it seemed. Not yet. Not when things were so recent and these pseudo-friendships were so new. But the Bard wanted to trust them, he pursed his lips. And the Thief didn’t seem too fussed with that, gesturing out to the others.

“Well, that’s all dandy,” the Bard’s voice cut in during a lull in Draco’s story, gathering attention again, “I’m Cadence!” 

He stuck a leg out, pointing his toes up with one leg while the other leg curled around the armrest. What a pose. The Thief cupped his eyes, exasperated, but Cadence just laughed it off. 

“Great to meet you, Cadence!” Draco said with a laugh, and then they all turned to the Thief.

He bristled a little, shoulders hiking up as he shook his head. “No.”

Fair enough. They then all looked at the Child, who had raised his hand from the floor beside Cadence’s arm chair.“I don’t have one,” the Child raised his hand, “I haven’t really been thinking about it.”

He had the Damsel’s crown resting lopsidedly on his head still, despite the Thief’s nudging. The Damsel clicked his tongue, that wouldn’t do, so he got up and shuffled over to fix it. He gripped the side of the couch and steadied himself on his good leg, trying not to wobble while he fixed it.

“The tiara looks da-looks da-da-it looks charming,” he said with a smile. 

The Child giggled. “Thanks, Princey.”

The Damsel was jarred out of that already jarring assertion by David, who nudged his leg with his hand. “Yo, Damsel, is your leg okay?” 

It looked like the Damsel wasn’t walking properly. His weight was mostly focused on his right leg, limp pretty clear even from the short distance in the living room. Could they get lasting damage? Or maybe the Imagination just deemed that proper. Either way, that kinda sucked.

“It’s fi-I’m fine,” the Damsel said, but David was already sitting upright, watching him walk back to sit on Draco’s lap.

“Here, looks like you might need a cane,” David said, and he lifted his hands out in front of him. 

The form of a stick appears first, straight and about half of the Damsel’s height, maybe more. It shifted, then, with a sharp point, and then the base grew out, and then the handle grew stylized. It pointed at the top, jutted out in the middle. “Agh, no,” David blew a raspberry.

“Really, it’s-it’s okay-I-it’s okay, David,” the Damsel tried to dissuade him, but it only convinced David more. 

“How about gold?” Marlowe added, and David hummed. 

“Fuckin’ choice.”

The cane landed in his hands. It was light, despite how it seemed to be metallic gold, and the handle appeared to be the top of a castle tower, with a balcony jutting out. David took the handle and pressed a small square button, which looked like a window, and pulled out a sword with the balcony as the guard. Good that the mechanism worked. He clicked the blade back into place and then grabbed the bottom, holding out the handle to the Damsel. 

The Damsel was just starring at David. Not the cane. David. Eye wide, face surprised. Did David overstep or something? Ah, shit. Maybe the Damsel didn’t want it, maybe he already had one back at the castle, why the fuck did David just make him something without asking. 

“....For….for me?” he asked, and his voice was soft as a breath. 

Oh. Was that really so hard to believe? “Yeah, ‘course. No big,” David smiled. 

The Damsel took the handle and pulled the cane into his lap. He ran his hand along it while Marlowe, taking the calm silence as an opportunity, began to talk again. 

“We each have some portion of Roman’s mental process. I spoke to him about two weeks ago and he agreed to meet us for counsel,” that didn’t get any reactions, good or bad, so Marlowe continued, “He seems ill. And he’s been mistreating those of us he sees.”

At that, the Child gasped. “That’s not nice!” he said, lip jutting out, “Prince Roman knows we’re just trying our best.”

“I’m not sure if he can perceive that. I confronted him over it with David,” David nodded along to Marlowe’s explanation, and Draco chuckled, having heard a solid majority of what was said, “We agreed that it would be best to discuss this matter with all of you, given how we are something like Roman’s sides.”

Roman’s sides. What a quaint idea. How selfish, to think he deserves….now, Damsel. You don’t need to consider that anymore. Stop. 

“Like,” David picked up the pace, “I’m definitely his creativity. Most of it, at least. I just make shit day in and day out, and when he’s feeling creatively burned, so am I. We’re his advisors on shit.”

The Damsel raised a hand. It felt like the right thing to do instead of just cutting David off. It got David to be quiet, though, and Marlowe nodded to him. 

“Within what parameters would-would we be advising him?” The concept of them as advisors, as Sides, was daunting. What kind of oversight could the Damsel even provide? ‘Don’t kill all your friends, it isn’t nice’?

Marlowe nodded. “A very fair question. Whatever parameters we represent. David would likely advise on the creative front. I am certain facets of his creativity, like his pattern based thinking, but I more so represent his logical reasoning.”

“Aha, I’m also parts of his impulse,” David added, snapping his fingers. 

“Ooh, I’m probably part of his impulse, too,” Draco said. “Probably some, uh...hm. I don’t know what else.”

Ah. Who the fuck was going to tell Draco that he was….kind of self absorbed? Marlowe and David shared a look, and the Thief tensed in his seat. But the Damsel reached up, cupping his cheek, and he said warmly, “Darling, you’re probably parts of his self-esteem, too.”

Draco chuckled, patting his own chest. “Aw, man, probably! I’m fucking phenomenal. I’m Roman’s badassery.”

“You’re his ego,” the Damsel said, and Draco laughed even more at that.

Luckily, this topic did get everyone thinking about what they represented. No, not represented. What they oversaw. What parts of Roman they were imbued with. An interesting self-reflection, in Marlowe’s books.  “I think I’m part of his creativity and his self-esteem,” Cadence said, rubbing the back of his neck, “How important is it that we all define what we are, though? I don’t think….it feels like what we are changes, you know? It isn’t all the same, even though it isn’t always going to be changing, too.”

“That’s a fair point. We likely don’t even know the full parameters of who everyone is. This is also information that Roman wouldn’t need in the first day,” Marlowe said, nodding to Cadence.

“Are we gonna talk to our Romeo?” Cadence’s foot leaned up, gently smacking the Thief’s cheek.

The Thief jumped, looking down at Cadence with the thinnest of glares. What the fuck was that move? Cadence grinned up at him, though, and the Thief reached down to hold his hand. He was being quiet because he was assessing the situation. Of course they were all Roman’s sides. Look at them. Think about where they came from. And the Thief didn’t need to think more about who he was; he was Roman’s fucking anxiety. Could you imagine that? Like, the one not anxious part of Thomas also was anxious. And the Thief proved that. 

Nevertheless, no one pressed him, though Cadence squeezed his hand more. Marlowe just looked around at them for a few seconds before turning back to the group. “Would you all support talking to Roman?” . 

Glances were shared. Roman had been mistreating some of them? Yes, of course, it made sense to be rude to what you don’t understand. He was ill? He wasn’t exactly in a good place, so to speak. They had to treat him, make sure Roman was able to take care of himself, both physically and mentally. They could take care of him, too. It wasn’t something many of them were opposed to.

“Do we know why Roman’s acting mean?” Cadence asked, resting his other hand below his head, holding himself up. 

Marlowe shook his head. “We do not. And my hypothesis can only be as exact as my own parameters over Roman’s mentality. To understand for certain, we need to talk to him.”

Everyone seemed to understand that. Whether it was from their own understanding of how absolutely fucked up the situation that they had all been conceived in was, all of them recognized how disorganized and draining a scheme like Roman’s would have been. Perhaps he was simply burnt out? Or he was punishing himself? 

There were many explanations that all sounded equally plausible.But they didn’t have all of the information.

“We should talk to Roman,” the Child whispered, the first to voice the thought. “I’d like to talk to him.”

It was a sentiment they all shared. The Child, ever so ready to explore. None of them questioned what he represented in Roman, though all of them, even David, knew that he was important. But for most of the conversation, the Child had been starring into nothing with a fairly blank expression, hands twiddling with the Damsel’s crown now in his hands. He was thinking about something else.

This was a fairly adult conversation, after all. Even the Thief curled up a little tighter in his jacket, wincing at the thought of having to talk to someone important, let alone his own Host. What was he supposed to do? “What if Roman doesn’t like us?” he asked, before he could stop himself.

The Damsel nodded with the thought. Roman would surely hate him. Look at what the Prince had turned into. But Marlowe waved his hand, not dismissively, but reassuringly. “Then that’s on Roman. You must work with the different parts of yourself to achieve homeostasis. Not against them.”

That was understandable but still lowkey bullshit. The Thief wasn’t about to argue it, though, not when everyone else looked so ready to talk to Roman. He hid more in his cloak, pulling it taught around his shoulders, and Cadence squeezed his hand again. 

It was something that had to be done. “If we area in agreement, we should discuss what to approach Roman with,” Marlowe said, opening the floor to more discussion.

“You said he’s ill, correct?” the Damsel asked, and when Marlowe nodded, he snapped his finger, “It makes sense for us to check in on-check-check on-see if he’s okay. He can’t deny us the opportunity to help.”

“Who knows if he’ll want it,” Draco huffed, and a bit of smoke blew out his nose as he grunts. 

“We should still see. I, for one, do not want him to be hurt,” the Damsel said. 

He leaned up, still holding the cane across his lap, and kissed Draco’s jaw. The reaction was immediate, Draco’s cheeks lighting up a bright red, like his scales. He giggled, and his eyes flick down, avoiding the shit-eating grin that David was sending his way. “Hey. That ain’t fair,” Draco said, tail reaching up and rubbing his own cheek, “You can’t just kiss your way to victory.”

“Either I’ll kiss you or I’ll stab you,” the Damsel murmured, “We  _ have _ to help.”

Marlowe cleared his throat. Cadence chuckled, and the Thief — Eric but, well, you know — covered the Child’s eyes.

“Oh, I’ll help myself alright,” Draco grinned, running a hand through the Damsel’s hair. 

“Oh! What about Phillip?” the Child patted the Thief’s arm, wrangling against the Thief’s attempts to keep the obvious sexual tension out of his view.

That definitely got the couple’s attention. Hell, that got everyone’s attention. David and Marlowe both turned to the Child, who managed to get the Thief’s arm off of him once the royal couple stopped hitting on each other. 

The Child pointed to the Damsel, who was starring with the barest blush from Draco’s lap. “You said you don’t have a name yet, right?” he asked, “You could be Phillip!”

Ah. The Thief sighed, leaning over the couch a little more and ruffling the Child’s hair. “Sorry, he’s really into naming. He was excited when Cadence got named,” he tried to explain, but the Damsel shook his head. 

“It’s okay. I….Phillip,” he rubbed the back of his neck, considering it.

“Hey, kid. Why?” David asked, raising his eyebrows at the Child.

And the Child just shrugged, grinning just a little too happily. “He tamed the dragon!” 

Oh my god. David snorted, leaning over the side of the couch and wheezing out his laughter. Beside him, Marlowe covered his mouth, snickering into his hand, and Draco turned even redder, if possible. The scales on his forehead even got redder. Cadence let out a loud hoot, letting go of the Thief’s hand to cover his mouth with both of his hands. The Thief, too, groaned and ruffled the Child’s hair, grumbling quietly about how he had to keep it quiet, kid.

The only person who didn’t react negatively was, surprisingly, Phillip. Or the Damsel. Or the Prince. 

He watched the Child look around at the other laughing adults, who had all overlooked his simple explanation for something comedic. The Child had thought he’d put a lot of thought into it. Phillip was a great name! The Damsel was soft and kind, sometimes, the Child had seen how grateful he was when David made him the cane. And Phillip was such a nice, princely name. It made sense. 

The Child pulled his legs up to his chest, pressing his chin against his knees with a furrowed brow. Why was everyone laughing?

“I like it,” Phillip said, and the laughter petered out. 

“Really?” Draco asked, looking down at him, “Phillip?”

Phillip shrugged. “I tamed the dragon,” he said, and he leaned up, brushing Draco’s hair out of his hairline, “And I trust the Child’s judgement.”

That was new. David cleared his throat, straightening up his back along with the rest of the others while the Child beamed. Phillip gave him a warm smile, too, and then took a deep breath.

“Enough fooling around. I’m sorry to have derailed the conversation, but….Roman.”

Right. Roman. The Child nodded, too, and looked up at Marlowe. The others, too, gathered themselves and looked over at the ringleader. 

Marlowe cleared his throat, hoping to rally conversation again as he said, “We are all useful, clearly. Working together is the key to survival, not working against each other and not hiding.”

Phillip nodded, nestling more into Draco’s arms. Similarly, David wrapped his arm around Marlowe’s, and the Thief carefully put a hand on the Child’s shoulder. The Child smiled up at him and then picked up conversation. “It sounds like we all need to work together and it looks like we  _ can _ work together. I mean...we all found each other, somehow, right? We support each other.”

Right. Marlowe nodded to the Child, but the Thief’s quiet mutterings picked up enough. “But do we?”

“Yes,” Phillip said.

The Thief looked up at him. They were the two halves of Roman’s fears, after all, and quiet considerations had made him realize how similar they were. And that scared him. 

Look. He wasn’t easy at trusting people. Especially people who’d tried to kill him, everyone he cared about, and his Host. He didn’t even trust all these others, people who’d helped him. 

But there was something reassuring, looking at the most scared and scarred, as he tried to reassure the Thief. 

“Yes, we do,” the Child said, one hand holding the Thief’s leg, the other playing with the Damsel’s crown still, “It’s gonna be okay.”

The Thief looked down at him. Quietly, he nodded, and he gave the Child a thin smile. He’d try. 

Good. The Child stood up and shuffled over to Phillip. He slapped the crown back onto his head, trying to straighten it out like Phillip had done for him, and then he gave Phillip two thumbs up. Nice. 

What a kind child. Phillip chuckled, giving the Child a thumbs up while he fixed his hair around the crown. They also had somewhat of an understanding, though neither could really explain where it had come from. Likely it came from their shared oversight of Roman’s memories, good and bad, and how they understood each other’s roles in this world. But that was hardly communicated. What happened was that Phillip nudged the Child go sit back down, which he did. 

“We’re all trying to do our best to help Roman, and none of us are perfect on our own,” the Child scooted onto his butt back to where he’d been sitting..

“But, perhaps together….we may be able to do good,” Phillip finished, watching the Child with a small, fond smile. 

The Child nodded vigorously. He grabbed one of the potato skins and fell back onto the ground, clapping his hand against his wrist. “Now, what’re we gonna say to him?”


	7. Gavin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: food mention, illness because Roman is sick :') — i think that's it! but if there's anything else, please let me know! 
> 
> i am absolutely vibrating with excitement for the next chapter! this one was pretty hard to write, but in my defense, it's long and has a lot of dialogue. i can't believe we're already meeting gavin, though!!!
> 
> i also want to say that i fully forgot the kid who stays with thomas sometimes is ALSO named gavin (i literally jumped out of my chair when i saw him in one of thomas' videos) but that is super duper a coincidence. it's a bit too late to change gavin's name, though, so it's staying :') and we're just :') not going to :') mention it canonically :') 
> 
> hope you enjoy!!! only one chapter left uwu

“Are you sure we should be doing this? What if he gets mad?”

“The worst he-The worst he can do is un-create us.”

“I mean, that’s pretty bad. I kinda like being me.”

“He’s put up with you for so long that you’re probably safe. Shit’d fuckin’ suck if he un-created, like….Child. Or something.”

“Hey! Why is it always me?”

“Are you threatening him?”

“Woah, woah, I’m just joking! I wouldn’t actually hurt the kid.”

“I love you, Pic-asshole, but you said you were the worst parent.”

“At least he’s self aware. But we must recollect ourselves to go in.”

Roman was starring at the door. There were many voices. He’d never heard any of them—well, that was a lie. He hadn’t heard many of them. He could pick out the Artist and the Playwright, though, and he was pretty sure he’d heard the Dragon. Or, well. Draco. David. He knew they had names. But using them made it feel like they were real, like they weren’t just figments of the Imagination, and Roman wasn’t sure he liked that.

He didn’t know if he liked it, having Sides. Were they going to be helpful? He and the others tried to be as helpful as they could for Thomas. The ones he’d met said they wanted to help. What could they help him with, though? Roman understood himself well enough. 

They were going to come in eventually, though. His hands gripped at the bedsheets, starring into the distance at the door. Just waiting for them to enter. 

And enter they do. The door creaked open and someone Roman doesn’t recognize, someone with dirty blonde hair and an eyepatch, poked their head in. Is that…a crown? His uniform looks quite regal, too. Roman’s heart siezes.

Is that the  _ Prince _ ? He has a Prince? 

Roman gripped the bed a little tighter as the person opened the door a little wider. “Hello, Prince Roman. I...I am the Damsel,” he bowed his head slightly in acknowledgement, “I am here with Playwright and all of the others. May we-Can we come in?”

The Damsel. What an interesting name. Roman had never seen him before. Where was the Damsel hiding? And why does he have a crown, why is he…. is __ he the Prince? What?

Who else is there? What is Roman? Fear seized his heart. What parts is he made of? 

There were some whispers behind the Damsel, who turned around to hiss at someone before turning back around and smiling weakly.

“Yes,” Roman said quietly. 

The Damsel smiled at him. That was the cue. He opened the door a little wider, limping himself in while the others shuffled in. To Roman’s surprise, they didn’t appear too angry. The Dragon was right behind the Damsel, hand on his back lightly. His eyes seemed to pointedly avoid Roman’s, even though he was boring holes into the Dragon with intense focus. The Artist shuffled in next, the Playwright’s arm looped through his. 

Roman chided himself internally. David. Names. He had to remember. 

In walked a child. A child? His hair is messy and black, skin soft, with rosy cheeks and a wide smile as he skipped in after the Playwright. His hand was gripping a black sleeve, pulling in a cloaked person with long black hair. The new man shot Roman a  _ glare _ before picking the child up and waiting for the last person to come in. 

The last person is wearing a skirt and tights, and he smiled picture perfect at Roman as he closed the door. “Hiya, Romy,” he said, and then he giggled. 

“Bard,” the cloaked person murmured and ‘Bard’ giggled again, wrapping his arms around the cloaked person’s back and leading him toward the rest of the group, who Roman then noticed had gathered around his bed. 

As the last of them shuffled in, Roman realized how boxed in he was. They surrounded him, looming. He felt a cough climb up his throat. 

The Artist ducked his head, coughing harshly into the crook of his elbow, and Roman looked at him. 

“There are more of you than I expected,” Roman said. 

“I promised you I would get everyone available,” the Playwright smiled cheekily back.

Roman didn’t really know what to say about that. Or what to say in general. He opened his mouth for a moment before closing it again, slowly. 

“My dear prince, are-are you ill?” the question came at him quietly from the Damsel, who leaned a little closer. 

He took one of his gloves off and rested his hand against Roman’s forehead. The first thought that rushed through his mind was that the Damsel’s hand was incredibly cold for someone who wore gloves. His instinct was to fight back but the Damsel’s presence was so familiar. So comforting. Perhaps it was the overall comfort of being surrounded with himself. 

That couldn’t be it. He didn’t trust any of these figments. 

“No. I’m fine,” Roman lied. 

The Damsel gave him a look that stated clearly that he was lying, but the one in the cloak punctuated it with a clear, precise, harsh, “He’s lying. Great.”

“I….” he wouldn’t be able to hide from these people, would he? “Yes. I am.”

“What ails you?” the Damsel asked. 

It would be so easy to lie. Well, not literally, he’d just been called out for lying. But Roman didn’t want to tell them. He did, he did want to tell them and he did want help and he did need someone to lean on, but he didn’t trust them. They would be useless. What could they tell him about himself that he didn’t already know?

“Why are you all here?” is what he asked. 

The Playwright snorted at that. “You asked me to—”

“We want to help,” the child said, “You’re sick! And you’re hurt. And you’re our prince. We wanna help.”

It’s hard to argue against that. Roman found that he couldn’t. His hands found each other, holding as he watched the child go back toward the person with the cloak, and he cleared his throat. 

“What...what are your titles?” he asked. “You three. You’re Bard.”

That, he nailed. The Bard raised his arms and swept into a deep bow. “You’ve got it, Queen of Hearts. Nice to finally meet you.”

He nudged the cloaked man beside him, who looked down. It seemed like he didn’t want to meet Roman’s eyes. Skittish. “I’m the Thief,” his voice is quiet. 

The Thief. What use would Roman have for a Thief? Before he could ask, the youngest one raised his arms and leaned onto the bed, head plopping down on his hands, as though he were posing. He smiled wide at Roman, and Roman noticed he was missing one of his front teeth. “I’m the Child! It’s nice to meet you, Prince Roman,” he patted his cheeks, giggled, “It’s so exciting! But I’m sorry you’re sick.”

Ah, yes, that. Truth be told, Roman didn’t really know what to do now. He hadn’t expected the Playwright to pull through. This was all overwhelming. 

The Child was still talking. It was just noise buzzing in his ear until he felt something fall onto the bed, something a little more dense. 

“I made you soup!” he heard the Child say, and he looked down to see a thermos, with a little spoon taped to the side, “Thief said cream hurt your stomach so I made you chicken noodle. And Thief helped me boil the water ‘cause last time I tried, I almost set the Tree on fire. But I hope you like it!”

Roman slowly picked the thermos up. He froze, coughing hard into his own elbow, before turning back to the Child, who watched him with a worried pout. He didn’t want to...upset the kid. “Thank you.”

The Child smiled. Behind him, the Thief patted his back, bending down to do it, and then gently pulled him back off of the bed a little. His eyes were following Roman, worried. 

“So,” the Artist cleared his throat, “We all cover all the bases in your thinking, your actions. Don’t know what all of our exact parameters are but, like….yeah.”

“That makes sense,” Roman said.

“So, what’s the problem?” the Playwright crossed his arms, holding his head a little higher, “You’re ill. You’re in a creative block. What else is wrong?”

If they knew what he was thinking, then couldn’t they guess themselves? Roman held the thermos in his lap, slowly opened the lid. There was definitely soup in there and the scent hit him with nostalgia. Nice, warm chicken noodle soup. He peeled the spoon off the side and took a small spoonful of a sip, eyes glancing back up at everyone else. No one seemed mad. The Dragon’s wings fluttered a little, like a bird getting comfortable, and he looked away when Roman met eyes with him.

He didn’t like this. They weren’t comfortable with him, why were they here. He wasn’t comfortable with them.

“I’m just sick,” Roman said, “You don’t need to be here, it was a stupid idea.”

There was a collective sigh around the room. That must have been an expected answer, then. The Dragon huffed, smoke coming out of his nose in a small burst of frustration. The Thief rolled his eyes, glancing at the Damsel silently, and the Damsel lifted a hand. He must control the room somehow. Even the Playwright, who’d opened his mouth, closed it slowly when the Damsel moved. 

“You’re afraid. Of us,” the Damsel said, and Roman felt a small shiver run up his spine, “But we’ve said we won’t hurt you. We are here be-We’re here because we want to help.”

“I don’t know how to do this,” the words were out of Roman’s mouth before he knew it, “What-How am I supposed to-How does this work? It’s new and I don’t think I-I don’t think I need help figuring myself out.”

“Just because it’s new doesn’t mean it’s scary,” the Thief cut in and Roman turned to him.

He flinched, when Roman looked at him, but his hands simply balled into his cloak. After some thought, the Thief added, “New situations aren’t always threats.”

Roman wasn’t sure how to address that. He blinked at the Thief, trying to understand what that meant. These sides of his, their mere existence was a threat. It meant he was disjointed. Can a part of a whole have parts itself? Doesn’t that threaten its integrity or something?

There was a grunt to his side, and Roman noticed the Child actually climbing onto the bed with him. He didn’t move too fast, just shuffled up beside Roman and sat with his legs crossed. “You’re worried about us? Or you’re worried about the others. And Thomas.”

Thomas. The others, his….his….

“I don’t need this,” Roman said, trying to keep his voice hard, “You all-If you are my sides, then you answer to me. I don’t need you to tell me about the others.”

“You feel guilty about how you treated them, and about how you are now,” the Damsel said.

Roman’s head snapped toward the Damsel now, mouth slightly agape. How...Now that Roman could focus on it, now that the Damsel had said it, Roman could tell that that was exactly the root of his issue.

How had he known? He grips the soup thermos tighter and pulls his knees closer to his chest. Insecurity looms over his shoulder. Why did they know so much about him?

“Sniped,” the Artist chuckled, stuffing his hands into his pockets. 

“How-What do I have to feel guilty about, mister Know-It-All?” Roman shot the Artist a glare. 

Usually, the Artist would falter. In this case, though, he just gave Roman a pair of finger guns. 

What did they  _ know _ ?! What did they know that he didn’t?

“Well, you’re in a creative block,” the Playwright drew Roman’s attention back to him, “You’re experiencing a high amount of emotional tension and thus you don’t have the stamina and mental energy to create. David and I are experiencing it. I imagine you’re under much more duress.” 

Roman starred at him for a few seconds. That also made sense. 

So they were just….his sides? Help. He made people to help him through his problems. But if they were supposed to help, then why did he make something like the Dragon.

“We just wanna help, Princey,” the Dragon said, “Can you let us?”

The Dragon. Roman grit his teeth, turning to face him. He even put the lid on the soup for now, so it wouldn’t spill on his bed. “Like I would take help from a beast,” he growled.

Sure, he was in bed, and he wasn’t in a physically healthy space to be picking fights with the six foot tall dragon man. But Roman wasn’t about to back down. Maybe the Damsel and the Child and all of them knew things about him, but that didn’t meant they knew everything, least of all were they allowed to level him with this monster.

“You see yourself as-as a beast, then,” the Damsel said. 

He put his cane in front of the Dragon, whose tail wrapped itself around his waist, as though he were hugging himself. Roman’s shoulders loosened. 

The Dragon looked afraid. 

“I’m not-No, of course not,” Roman tried to laugh, but his throat felt dry. 

To his side, the Artist coughed again, covering his mouth with his sweater. The Dragon glanced at him quickly but the Damsel maintained his hard glare at Roman.

“He’s a dragon, a monster” Roman tried to argue, “He’s-There’s no way he’s a part of me.”

“He’s kind. And powerful. Strong,” the Damsel reached back, patting the Dragon’s chest with his off hand, “And occasionally dimwitted, but he means well and he takes-and he takes care of his own. Sound familiar?”

There was no way. 

If the Damsel truly was the Prince, if he stood for the things that Roman expected him to stand for, then he wouldn’t be standing for the comparison. This was….there was no way, he couldn’t be the Prince. Because Roman thought, like...if there was an Artist, then there had to be a Prince. Someone who understood him. He didn’t need eight sides, he only needed maybe two. Three? Two. An artist and a prince. But if this was the Prince then why was he causing so much of a fuss. And why was he being so calloused? And judgemental.

“You can’t possibly be comparing me to him,” Roman could hear his own voice falter, and the Damsel grinned. 

“It’s a fair comparison,” was all he said. 

Roman held his glare against the Damsel’s, who didn’t look away. The air was tense. 

He looked down, at the thermos of soup, and he leaned back, snuggling into the pillows around him. He didn’t need to interact. They’d leave, eventually.

Carefully, he unscrewed the lid to his soup. He could wait it out. Maybe it was childish. Maybe it was petty. But Roman didn’t have the time or energy to waste on these people. 

Roman started eating the soup. 

The Damsel chuckled quietly. Roman didn’t understand what was so funny. The Artist waved his hand and chairs appeared behind all of the adults, who sat down slowly, soft words of thanks from them all. The Damsel nearly collapsed into his, setting his cane aside as the Dragon sat on the back of his chair, tail looping around to rest on the Damsel’s lap like a seatbelt. 

They all just starred at him while he ate his soup. 

They weren’t going to leave. Were they.

“Well?” Roman asked, gesturing to the door, “I believe your quest’s been completed.”

“Not until we know what’s wrong,” the Bard responded, crossing his legs and leaning on one of his chair’s armrests, “And not until you give us a table to sit at.”

He grinned at the joke, even though Roman’s eyes rolled. 

Did they need to know everything? Did he have to spell it all out? It seemed like they knew parts enough. The guilt. The creative block. The fall from grace. 

Roman didn’t want to spill everything, he didn’t want to relive every traumatic moment from these past few days. It was a waste of time. But it was growing clearer that none of them were going to leave without him explaining something, so he sighed. 

“I shouldn’t have had that breakdown,” he said quietly, almost hoping for them to not hear him, “It was stupid. You all shouldn’t exist, and I shouldn’t be so splintered. I can’t afford to do that to Thomas.”

The Damsel shook his head. “Breakdowns happen. You cannot-You won’t be perfect all of the time. That’s absurd.”

“Do they? The others are useful. You don’t see Virgil having constant breakdowns,” Roman scoffed. 

The Thief laughed at that, quiet and harsh. “Well, he did try to duck out.”

“Quack!” the Child said, clapping his hands.

“No,” the Thief pointed at the Child, a small grin on his face, and the Child giggled in response.

How were they able to banter so freely? Roman listened to what they said like following a pinball machine, bouncing around from point to point. It was such a dense conversation. 

“You are neglecting to remember that Virgil has taken the time and space to address his mentality,” the Playwright explained, “You haven’t given yourself that opportunity. And we are part of your mechanism for handling this exact problem.

“I don’t need it. Because there’s nothing wrong with me. I’m the hero, after a—”

“Even heroes need to take care of-take care of themselves,” the Damsel interrupted, “Even princes can’t be chivalrous all the time.”

Roman gave him a sidelong glance to which the Damsel responded with a shrug. There wasn’t much of an argument Roman could make to that, so he simply took another spoonful of soup and scowled at nothing. Some prince, he couldn’t even argue against his own Imagination’s inhabitants. 

“You need to lay down,” the Child said. 

“I am laying down.”

“No, no, like...You need a break.”

“Man, do we ever,” the Artist groaned, slumping into his seat. 

Roman watched him take his glasses off and cough again into his elbow. That was another thing Roman was a little worried about. He had been making the Artist create because he couldn’t create himself. 

But if the Artist was a part of him, then had it been a cyclical thing? Had forcing the Artist to create meant that Roman himself would take longer to heal? Because now it was almost like the Artist was sick, too.

Were they tied to him? They had to be. Roman had created himself sides and they were connected to him in some intrinsic way. They were creatures of the Imagination now, he could tell that much, but he could also tell that they had some deeper connection to him. Especially after having met them all. Especially having watched them. 

The Artist. David. Someone he’d actually spent time with. Had those bags beneath his eyes always existed? 

“I am literally so fucking tired, I could melt into this couch,” the chair beneath the Artist shifted into a bean bag, and he kicked his legs out, snuggling into his seat, “Heather Chandler, you need a break or I’ll break your spine.”

“I’m fine,” Roman lied.

“You’re lying to yourself,” the Bard rested his elbows on his knees, “You’re burnt out and you can’t keep up this facade, telling yourself that you’re okay.”

This was so annoying. Maybe they were right. So what. He still needed to pull himself together for Thomas and for the other Sides. 

Who could create? And what did the others mean? Who handled what? What even were the subliminary importances of his Sides, if they were Sides that he had? 

Why did he do this?

“Seven versus one isn’t fair,” Roman mumbled. 

“Well, actually, this is a one on one conversation,” the Playwright replied, gaining a few chuckles from the others.

Roman shot him a glare while the Damsel responded. “We care about you, and we want you to succeed. And we’re willing to do whatever’s-whatever you need to help.”

“We can duct tape him to the bed!” the Child suggested then, clapping his hands.

“Hey, wait, I’ll help,” the Dragon raised a hand, “I’ve always wanted to duct tape someone!”

“You can’t be serious,” Roman groaned, and the Damsel clicked his tongue.

“Try us.”

“You’re the Prince, why would you-What’s wrong with you?” Roman scoffed. 

The Damsel raised an eyebrow. Silence fell over the room, blanketing the bustling dynamics that Roman could see between the others. All eyes fell to him and Roman could sense he’d hit a nerve. Even the Dragon lowered his arm, the Child bit his lip with wide eyes. The Artist whistled nervously, glancing at the Damsel, along with everyone. The Thief looked like he was trying to retreat into his cloak.

“Maybe I am the Prince,” the Damsel said, “And maybe I am the-maybe I am the Damsel, too. But my name is Phillip.”

The Prince had a name. But, that was a confirmation, that Roman had a Prince. Phillip. Prince Phillip.

He could scream. He had a Prince. That was a relief. For a second there, he was worried there wasn’t any royal blood. That he’d somehow failed to be even the least bit gentlemanly. That he’d failed to provide the dreams and the glory that Thomas so desired. 

“Thank Perseus, the Prince. Where have you been?” Roman closed the soup — it was nearly done, but he didn’t want to waste any of it, “You’re all I need, oh my—”

“Stop. I am not anything of what-anything you think I am. I’m more monstrous than Draco could ever dream to be,” Phillip said, picking up his cane again and drumming his fingers against its top.

The Dragon chuckled, tail thumping against Phillip’s legs, and Roman couldn’t ignore him any longer. 

“Draco?” he asked, “No, that one doesn’t need a name.”

Phillip addressed Roman’s concerns immediately, with a voice as hard as concrete.“Why not? He’s as much a part of-a part of you as I am. As any of us are. Because we a-we are all equal parts of you. I might be the Prince, but I-but I am also the Damsel. And I am not more or less than the Dragon.”

That felt unfair. Of course the Prince was more, of course Phillip was more than this beast. Roman wasn’t a beast. He wasn’t a mess, he was perfect. He was good. He abided by the rules, he maintained order. He would never. These people weren’t him. If the Prince couldn’t see that, then maybe he wasn’t the Prince, either.

“You have flaws, bitch,” the Thief stated, “Get over it.”

Silence. 

Roman starred at the Thief, who was now matching his eyes with a glare. Tired. They were all tired. Weren’t they? 

He wasn’t the Prince. The Prince was Phillip, but that didn’t matter. Well, it mattered, but only in the sense that that’s who he was. Because part of Roman was a prince. And the Thief had a point. Tired. He was tired. Roman was tired. The Artist was tired. They were tired. 

Even the pieces of him were tired of his shit. Roman leaned back into his pillows, setting the thermos and the spoon aside as he pulled a pillow onto his face. He was so, so tired. At least that would block out the others from view. 

“Roman, my prince,” Phillip’s voice, soft and gentle, cut through.

Everyone’s voices dropped. Soft whispering sounded behind the pillow that Roman held firmly against his head. He didn’t want to hear it. 

Frankly, did he care? Would it matter if he disappeared into the Imagination permanently? Okay, it would likely matter. Deceit would be furious. Virgil, too. Oh, Logan’s wrath would be inescapable, as would Patton’s fatherly disappointment. He had to get up, had to face these demons, but he simply couldn’t pull himself together to do so.

And someone smacked the pillow on his head. 

“Oop—Child, stop hitting him,” the Bard said, amidst the Artist’s laughter.

“Roman!” the Child shuffled, sitting on Roman’s chest and laying on top of the pillow on his head, “Knock knock!”

“Oh, for goodness—okay, okay!” Roman sat upright, pushing the Child off of his face, “Stop climbing on me!”

“But you were ignoring us! And we just want you to be okay, okay?” the Child landed in his lap, which was still much closer than Roman was happy about.

He sighed frustrated, and the Bard got up. Roman expected him to pull the Child off of him, but instead, the Bard simply fixed the pillows behind him into an actual seat. Huh. 

“We wanna help you, doll,” the Bard sat on the side of the bed, gently patting Roman’s hand.

“Some of us have had misgui-mis-mis-wrong opinions on how to achieve that, especially me, but all of us agreed that what we want more than anything is for you to be happy,” Phillip said.

“You want to be happy, too, and you wanna make Thomas proud,” the Child grinned, and he got close enough to pat Roman’s arm, hand small and soft, “I know you’re gonna make him happy.”

The raw honesty of that sentiment. Roman starred at the Child and it was almost as though a new light had been shone on him, on all of them. There had been so much truth, so much clear stated fact about Roman and about how he’d been thinking, feeling, that it felt impossible to run anymore. 

These were all pieces of him. They knew things about him. They were him, once upon a time. 

Maybe they were okay.

“Do you think so?” he asked, and he hated how small his voice sounded. 

The Child didn’t say anything about that, though. He giggled, leaned up and hugged Roman now. “I know it. You’re so cool!”

He pulled off, sat right beside Roman and made wild gestures with his arms. “You’re like a knight in shining armor! You’re always there, always thinking up cool things and making people happy. You do so much and you do it all really well so it’d be dumb if they didn’t think you were great. There’s just so much to love in you.”

Roman cleared his throat. He could feel his voice catching. “Thank you, Child.”

The Child clapped. And then he launched himself forward, giggly as he threw his arms around Roman’s shoulders. Roman himself caught the Child, too, and fell back onto the pillows with a soft “oof!” 

While the Child snuggled into his side, the others seemed to relax. The Thief especially seemed to pull his arm out from inside his cloak, reclining into the chair more, and the Bard leaned over onto his side.

“You know, I think you’re forgetting that the other Sides came in here because they love you,” the Bard said, and his arm was linked with the Thief’s, who leaned his face into the Bard’s shoulder. 

“They’re probably really worried,” the Thief added quietly.

Roman could only snort at that. “After the stunt I pulled, there’s no way they think I’m any sort of prince. More like a—”

“A damsel, right? A damsel in dis-distress,” Phillip asked. 

Roman starred at him. 

It was like looking in a mirror. Finally, The fog cleared. He blinked slowly and turned to the Dragon, whose wings fluttered. 

They were….parts of him. They knew him. They knew how he was thinking. 

Realization dawned on Roman like a spotlight. 

They were going to help him. He was the one refusing and abusing. He was the one who had neglected to realize that they were him. 

And he was treating himself….like this? He had yelled at the Dragon—at Draco. He had yelled at the Artist, David. He had shunned himself, screamed at himself, subjugated himself, and for what? 

The others must have seen it, because the Child scooted back a smidge. Phillip cleared his throat, too, and kept talking. “My dear Prince, you’re doing the best you can. Heroes can’t do all the saving. Sometimes, you need to save yourself.”

“Okay,” Roman said, “I...Okay.”

Phillip smiled, watching him come around. “Wouldn’t want to be-to be our own villain. Would we?”

Roman shook his head. 

Our own villain. He raised his head to the others, looking around. There were so many places he should start. Maybe with an apology. But he didn’t want to immediately dive into begging for forgiveness. He didn’t even know these people. He didn’t even know himself. “....What were your names again?” he asked quietly.

Phillip positively beamed. He bowed his head. “Well, you know me,” he said. 

Phillip turned to the Dragon, whose wings folded tight against his back, awaiting the worst. “I’m Draco,” he said. 

Roman nodded. “Draco. I’m sorry I laughed.”

Draco shrugged, a small smile on his face. “It’s alright,” he said, “It’d kinda funny.”

“It’s the etymology of the word ‘dragon,’ you know,” the Playwright said, smiling warmly at Roman, “I am Marlowe.”

“Okay,” Roman said, turning to the Artist. 

Who shrugged. “Nothing’s changed here. I’m David.”

“Okay.”

The Bard waved his hand, a warm smile on his face. “You can call me Cadence, my romantic royal.”

“Okay. Cadence.”

Roman’s eyes rested on the Thief, who flinched. He looked around at the others, then at the….the Child. They seemed to level with each other, and the Child simply nodded, the Thief sighing quietly in response. 

“My name is Eric,” he whispered, soft as the wind. 

“Eric. A good name,” Roman said, turning finally to the Child. 

“I don’t have one,” the Child shrugged, smiling wide, “Haven’t thought of a good one, yet!” 

“Okay,” Roman said, and he patted the Child’s hand, “That’s okay. We’ll think of one, how about?”

The Child clapped. He held Roman’s hand tight, squeezed it against his chest, and giggled. “I’d love that. Thank you, Prince Roman,” his voice was buzzing with excitement.

“It’s my pleasure,” Roman said. He was unsure what he was being thanked for, though. It felt like the Child and the other parts of him had helped tremendously more.

There was a bit of a beat of silence. Then, Phillip coughed, and asked, “What would you like to do now?” 

Roman blinked, looking around at the group, not so strange anymore. Almost familiar, now, as they smiled at him. 

He was a little sheepish, now. They were so clearly parts of him. It was awkward, yes, and unusual and new. 

But perhaps he could get used to it.

“Um….I guess I’ve been quite lonely? ” he rubbed the back of his head, “I should head back to the Mindscape, but I don’t...I’m not prepared to face them. Not yet.”

Phillip nodded understandingly. “Buddy, you shoulda said something, I’ve been on the fifth floor this whole time,” Draco said with a laugh, “Princey and I can keep you company!”

“I don’t wanna go home,” the Child said, pouting out his lips. 

“We can all stay for right now, how about?” Eric suggested, “We can….how about we watch a movie?”

The Child gasped. “YES!”

It didn’t take much convincing, nor much time for them to arrange a movie night. David, when working with a strict coal in mind, was much more productive. He set up a projector screen that may have blocked Roman’s bedroom door but did provide a nice widescreen angle. From there, Marlowe pulled the movie from storage—a storage, he explained, based on Roman’s memory of the narratives—and popped it into David’s projection system. 

Seats and cushions were arranged on Roman’s bed. The Child sat with Roman, almost forced him to drink the rest of the soup, while the other adults set up the pillows. Draco set Phillip down close enough to Roman that both had adequate back support, too, and he even wrapped his wing around Phillip’s back, curling him closer. Cadence sat on the top of the bed, on the headboard, with a few cushions behind him, and Eric leaned against his legs. 

Finally, once it was all set up, David flopped onto the bed beside the Child, Marlowe sitting calmly beside him with the remote. With a few clicks, “The Beauty and the Beast” was rolling. 

Fitting. 

The Child stayed nestled into Roman’s side, burrowed in the princely blanket with him. He hummed along to the songs, giggled along to Cadence singing them. He nailed it all, though he did convince Roman to join him in a duet of “Something There,” which got the Child clapping. Draco, as the night went on, fell asleep even. His tail found its way curled on top of those sitting on the bed, even laying across Roman’s shins. The others assured him that this was Draco’s way of showing love. 

It was closer to the end of the movie, when energy was winding down after the final siege on the castle, when the Child yawned. Roman looked down, patting the Child’s back as he wriggled. The kid seemed pretty tired. It must have been stressful for them all.

“How are you doing, uh, kiddo?” Roman asked, brushing a hand through his messy black hair.

The Child snickered, hugging Roman’s arm. “You can just call me Child, it’s okay.”

“It’s very surprising that you don’t have a name.”

The Child shrugged. “I haven’t put thought into it.”

“And yet you picked mine and Phillip’s?” Eric countered.

The Child covered his mouth with his hands, giggling, and then shrugged. “You have good Disney names! I just...don’t know what I want  _ my _ name to be.”

“That’s very fair,” Roman said with a hum, “And you….do have quite the childish air to you.”

Hm. The Child didn’t have a name. Did he have the...Was he allowed to suggest names? 

Oh, bother, now that he was thinking about it he couldn’t stop.The Child peered up at him, hands gently patting Roman’s chest in a slow, calming rhythm. “Yeah! That’s why I’m the Child,” he said, tilting his head, “What’re you thinking?”

Roman considered names. What name would best fit a child? Well, he did know many children, and Thomas knew may actual real children. What were childish-sounding names? Names that he could associate with a child. 

Timothy? Too long. Tim? Short. 

Jared? That was more of a high school or college aged name. Not eleven. Twelve? Early middle school.

Gerome? Again, too long, and a little too adult. 

Gavin? 

“What’re you thinking of, Prince Roman?” 

Hopefully this wouldn't be too much. Roman didn’t want to scare them, especially not the Child. He was just getting the hang of this all. “....How does Gavin sound?” he asked, voice soft. 

The Child blinked. Roman was….giving him a name? Oh. Oh, my. Oh, that was so good! He threw his arms around Roman’s neck, laughing as he leapt in and hugged him tight.

“I love it!” Gavin managed through his giggles, “Thank you so much, Prince Roman! I love it!”

Eric chuckled, watching Roman try to catch Gavin without them both falling over their throne of pillows. Phillip, on Roman’s other side, giggled behind his own hand. All of the other adults watched with glee as Gavin snuggles into Roman’s side, murmuring thank you-s and praises while Roman himself tried not to smile too wide. 

Roman hugged him back, just as tight, helped tuck the blanket around his sides as Marlowe popped in the next movie. For once, too, he felt….at ease with himself. All of himself. 


	8. Macbeth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: emotional manipulation, an actual villain, death mention(s)
> 
> ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) it's time to introduce my new son

Somehow, it was like communication solved the problem. Gee, imagine that. 

Okay, that’s an overstatement, but communication was definitely the major step one. The advisors, as the group of Romans decided they were named, arranged regular meetings with Roman in his banquet hall, which Marlowe had the pleasure of sprucing up for usability. Now, he’d made a large table with everyone’s insignia on their seats, a throne for their favorite Prince, and they met on a weekly schedule and had cell-phones for communication. Even Gavin, who’d excitedly customized his with a group selfie at their table as his background. 

And Roman was getting better. Draco had convinced him to go back outside, where the other Sides, his cherished loved ones, wow, his boyfriends, had happily taken care of him. Exactly one day had passed while he was “imagining,” considering how he controlled time’s passage in comparison to the real world, the Mindscape. And as much as cream of broth was bad for him, he loved Patton’s soup. And cookies. Deceit and Virgil had wrapped him in a blanket on the couch while Logan put on a television show they could all enjoy. It was so nice. And such a good way to recuperate. 

He was a little worried still, but the others made sure to comfort and support him the whole time while he was healing. And then beyond it. 

Yes, Virgil had accidentally snuck into the Imagination to find him and he’d been received so well by his council. Roman couldn’t have asked for a better reunion. 

The other Sides loved his council as well. Patton, as soon as he heard that Gavin still existed, found a reason to sneak in and play with him, much to Eric’s worry. But Eric was met too by Virgil and Deceit, who was equally pleased to see Phillip doing better. Logan and Phillip had gotten along quite well, too, almost better than Logan and Marlowe. It was such a fun reunion party that Draco was begging him to hold another, but Roman didn’t want to eat up everyone’s time. They had a Thomas to run, after all. 

Things were getting better. It was five months after the council of Romans had been created — about a year and a half, for them, considering how much slower the Imagination naturally ran — when Roman returned to the Imagination for some solo brainstorming. Having David, Marlowe, and Cadence around was nice, but he found that he still came up with ideas better on his own. 

He stepped out into his bedroom, shoulders slumping in ease as he took a breath of the air. Lovely. 

A soft shuffle. 

Roman’s hand jumped to his sword. He wasn’t alone. 

“Who’s there?” he called out, turning around immediately. 

His bedroom wasn’t….there was a man. He was standing by the vanity, one hand resting on the desk’s surface while the other brushed his hair back. He was wearing red pants, a black turtleneck, and a deep burgundy trenchcoat, punctuated by a vibrant red scarf hanging limply around his shoulders. The collar was raised. Not popped, it seemed to lift naturally, and there were gold streaks on it. Numbly, Roman put a hand over his own crest. 

The lines. Emanating from the sun. He ran through in his mind who this might be, mind also racing to think if any of his council featured the shine lines. Curses how they split up the crest. He couldn’t think of anyone. 

He never did believe Marlowe, when he said he’d brought everyone. He wanted to believe him, though. Roman did trust his advisors. But this was….Marlowe had lied to him. Huh.

“I’m sorry for startling you, my prince,” the man put his hands up, smiling gently, almost gently, “I’ve been hidden for so long, and I only wanted an audience.”

“Who are you?” Roman asked, still not having drawn his sword. The man didn’t appear to be a threat. He didn’t want to draw yet. 

The man just chuckled, though. “Not someone who would hurt you. I’m part of you, after all,” he stepped forward, putting his hands in his pockets, seemingly casual. 

There was something charmingly disarming about him. Roman very much didn’t feel threatened, even though a complete and seemingly conscious stranger was in his castle. If they were a villain, maybe one of Remus’, he could de-create them and send them back. 

That put him at ease. He stood up straighter, smiled even. No reason to be so hostile. Not to a part of him, after all. If that’s what he was. He must be. He had a part of Roman’s crest, and there was the inescapable feeling at the back of Roman’s neck, like the hairs were standing up. Maybe that was because he’d been spooked. Or maybe it was because he was learning to recognize himself. “Of course. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

The man tilted his head, smile faltering a little before tightening. He stopped a few paces away. “You don’t believe me?” he asked, and Roman internally winced. 

Was he that obvious? “I mean, I’ve never met you. That’s a little weird if you’re a part of this princely puzzle, right?” Roman patted his own chest with a chuckle. 

“That’s fair,” the man said with a shrug, “Sadly, the rest of your….what do you call them? Your ‘council’? I’m not sure they would all take kindly to me.”

Oh. “Really?” Roman asked, trying not to sound so incredulous. 

The man raised his eyebrows. In all fairness, Roman had to bite back his own surprise at his stupidity. 

“I mean, have you seen Eric? That guy doesn’t trust anything that breathes,” the man chuckled, “Or Phillip, like man. They wouldn’t like what I represent. That’s what Marlowe says, at least. I couldn’t hide from him.” 

He had a weird lilt to his voice. Phillip and Marlowe both had the slightest of accents, transatlantic. But Marlowe’s was...was that even an accent? He drew out words longer. Smooth talking. He almost reminded Roman of Deceit, but only in the best ways. 

He was interesting. Marlowe knew him, and trusted him, too. And Marlowe wouldn’t let Roman get hurt. He’d said so. Silly of Roman to jump so easily to distrusting Marlowe. If this person had asked to be hidden for some reasonable reason, then Roman had to trust Marlowe’s judgement.

“Well, then, I feel like I should entertain your audience,” Roman waved his hand and they were transported to another room, “What of me do you oversee, then?” 

It had two chairs and some bookshelves. It was another room in the castle, of course, with a view overlooking the kingdom’s town. The man sat down in one of the chairs and Roman took his own. 

“I’m….the best way to explain me is that I’m your ambition,” he explained, “The moniker I chose is ‘The Director.’”

“The Director. Well, it’s good to meet you, Director,” Roman said, nodding along, “And you represent my ambition?”

“Yes. Your ambitions to achieve. To win the second most handsome prince in all the lands and to, well. Self-improve,” the Director smiled a little more, and then reached a hand out, patting Roman’s arm, “I’m very proud of you.”

Oh, that was….Oh. Roman patted his hand, smiling back with exuberance. “Thank you. I’ve been doing my best. Of course, progress hasn’t all been linear, but everyone’s been very supportive. We’ve been working on it,” he gently rubs the armchair’s handle, smiling all the while. 

“Of course. There have definitely been setbacks, though, and I was hoping I could help,” the Director crossed his legs, resting his chin on his hand as he looked Roman once over again. 

“Help? How so?” Roman conjured tea and a tray, and then conjured a second one for the Director, who picked it up.

“I mean, the other councilors help as well. If possible, I’d like to have a hand in making decisions. You’ve been doing so well and, I mean….it might be presumptuous of me to think that I could add, but I would love to support you. You’re my prince,” the Director smiled at him as he mixed a sugar cube into the tea, “I just know I want to help.”

That sounded innocuous. In fact, that sounded a lot like what the others had told him….

There wasn’t much harm in it. This man was another one of his advisors, another person who wanted to support him. The Director. He seemed trustworthy. But where has he been for the past year? How did Marlowe find him, and was he hiding him? What had happened there? “Where have you been, though? I mean, I heard there was a whole hunting hullabaloo when all of you were created,” Roman asked.

The Director shook his head. He clicked his tongue and kept mixing the tea. His movements were incredibly tempered. His body seemed to poised. Roman could see that the Director held himself at high regard, and it felt like he was holding back. He seemed nice. This must be where the regality split, considering the Director held himself how Roman would expect a prince to.

But then he sighs, so softly, and Roman could feel his disappointment. “I saw what Draco did to Phillip,” he said quietly, “I’m not exactly a man of pain, and I didn’t want to suffer for existing. So I hid. Marlowe found me months ago. He had to talk me out of my isolation.”

Oh. The Director was gripping his teacup almost too tight. He must be frightened. It did take Roman some time to reassess how he viewed Draco and Phillip, even Eric, so it stood to reason that the troupe could be a bit off-putting. 

“I can imagine that was troubling,” Roman said. 

He didn’t want any part of him to be scared. The Director glanced up at him, reading his face. He must have noticed Roman was worried about him, because the Director straightened up, took a sip from his teacup. 

Perhaps he was awkward. It wasn’t like every part of Roman was a suave gentleman.

“Mhm,” the Director wiped his mouth with a handkerchief and continued, “A fairly good argument to never stick my head out of my home. And now, at this point...well, I have worries. There would be a lot of questions. Call me a coward but I don’t want to be on the receiving end of Eric’s sword, either. Maybe some day, but not today. Not so soon.”

Fair. Roman could understand the Director’s concerns with revealing himself now, even if Roman disagreed with them. He could...he had to respect his worries and his boundaries. That was something that the others had been helping lead him toward, respecting peoples’ boundaries, even his own. The others weren’t nearly as hostile as that one interaction between Phillip and Draco was, though. 

Then again—and Roman winced at the memory—they did have a habit of killing each other. Death was close to meaningless for them, so every time Eric tried to sneak into the castle, steal from the “hoard” Roman allowed Draco to guard, one of them would end up mortally wounded. Sometimes Phillip, if he was in the area and decided to join. Once, Cadence ended up dead as well, only to slowly heal himself. 

Yeah, when he thought more about it….yeah. The Director was kind of right. But he didn’t want the Director to think that the others were just violent idiots. 

“Understandable. I’m incredibly happy to meet you,” he smiled at the Director, reaching out with a hand.

The Director blinked, looking down at the hand for a few long seconds before looking up to study Roman’s face. 

Smart man. The Director slowly took Roman’s hand, too, maintaining eye contact. He had a firm handshake. “Thank you, Roman. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, too.” 

“I can understand not wanting to be involved with the other advisors, but I can assure you that they aren’t as hostile as you would think,” Roman said.

The Director raised an eyebrow. And that was fair. Roman chuckled, putting his hands up in mock defeat as he added “Even Eric’s warmed up quite a bit.”

That got a sort out of him. “Really now,” the Director said, sarcasm dripping from his voice.

“....Well.”

Drats. Roman couldn’t pressure the Director into revealing himself. And it would be weird to bring it up now, too, after he’d just met him. Roman would have to win his trust, just as the Director was trusting him now, with the information that he existed. 

The Director laughed a little, waving his hand dismissively. “Marlowe’s promised to keep my secret. I would be grateful if you did the same. I...sometimes, you know, there are parts of yourself that scare you. No one is entirely a good person, after all.”

“You’re right. That’s….fair.”

The things that the Director was saying made sense. It all made quite a bit of sense. No, Roman wouldn’t betray his trust. Why would he want to betray a part of himself? Plus, it sounded like the Director was honestly scared. 

Hopefully he would learn to be courageous enough to come out of his comfort zone. After all, like Eric said, new situations shouldn’t be too scary to not pursue. They were scary, yes, but he shouldn’t be off-put. 

Plus, the Director’s input might be welcomed! More opinions! Roman was always open to more seats at the table. So long as they weren’t overly critical, and his advisors had been quite good at keeping their wording manageable. The Director could become integrated at the speed he was happy with.

“Being an entirely good person is difficult, but I do believe I can help improve in that regard,” the Director said, “As perfect as we can be.”

Oh. Roman smirked, just a little. “I do like being perfect,” he said, a light joking tone. 

The Director smirked, too, and patted Roman’s shoulder. He stood, slowly, and Roman stood with him. There was something understanding in the Director’s expression. Like he knew something. Roman just assumed he and the Director had reached an understanding.

“I know you do, Roman,” he said, “I should be taking my leave soon.”

As though on a cue, there were heavy footsteps on the stairs. Roman checked the clock. Of course. He was going to meet with Draco soon to discuss what to wear to the wedding. After all, Thomas literally had to dress up, and Patton had suggested that they all dress up in some regard, too. Like a celebration.

Deceit was still quite upset about that turn of events, as was Roman, but he couldn’t complain in front of them. It was one of the most tense topics, the spats between Deceit and Patton, and Roman wasn’t about to increase the tension. No sir. But he was very okay with bitching about the situation to the parts of himself. And Draco, he’d found, was quite an adept bitching partner. 

He should let the Director get going, then. He didn’t want to blow his cover so soon. “Okay, then, Director! It’s been great meeting you.”

“Of course,” the Director took a few steps back and waved his own hand, the glasses of tea disappearing, like the traces of his person. “I’m glad I was able to catch you here. And...you can call me by my name. Macbeth.”

Macbeth. A name. He’d already selected a name. Then again, he was quite behind in the game. 

Roman bowed his head slightly in acknowledgement. He was glad, warm in his chest, that Macbeth trusted him with his name. Someone so skittish must be hard to get trust from, after all. “Macbeth. Thank you.”

Macbeth grinned. Once again, Roman felt the hairs on the back of his head stand up, and he had no idea what was so disconcerting. “We’ll be in touch,” Macbeth said, and then he sank through the floor just as Draco slammed the doors open. 

Macbeth landed on a plush red carped, letting out a sigh. Around him, the stone walls furnished carefully with picturesque and luxurious furniture. He walked over to the wall, where he had a series of notes so plentiful they nearly wallpapered the wall, and took out another Post-It. He scribbled down “Trust won” on the note and stuck it to a photo of Roman, then conjured a line of red yarn. 

He threaded the yarn between Roman and Marlowe. 

Step one had been completed. Macbeth stepped back, sitting on his low office chair and summoning a stress ball to squeeze as he surveyed his plans, his photos of all the other parts, of Roman, of Remus. The few photos of the other Sides, from when they visited. All strung together and connected with red lines in ways only he understood.

He leaned back with a long sigh. It was all coming together nicely. He could make Roman perfect.


End file.
